He's Only Ever Human
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: On the few times that John actually notices Sherlock's humanity, it gives him a sense of being refreshed. Sherlock's only human. It's nice to see. Series of oneshots highlighting Sherlock's emotions, because we all know that he has them.
1. Sherlock's Sad

**He's Only Ever Human**

John hated, sometimes, that Sherlock was such an antisocial prat. He didn't mind the silent taxi cab rides on a good day, but it wasn't one of those good days.

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if their case had gone a bit better. They had caught the killer, but another life had been sacrificed. Because they had failed to notice one little thing, one thing that would have saved a life. Death shouldn't have been such a shock, considering their line of profession. But it had been a kid. A kid. A bloody four year old kid. She'd been the hostage, the bait, or whatever the hell Sherlock called it, and they had done exactly what it was that the killer had wanted but it had been out of their control.

Now the silence of the cab ride was eating at John.

He didn't mind the silence, especially when he wanted to reflect on the day. He didn't want to reflect on today. He just wanted to forget about it, actually. But he wouldn't. He just... couldn't forget that image.

Sherlock had lost whatever little colour he had in usually pale skin when they had gotten to the crime scene. He argued with his usual vigour with Lestrade, with the whole team, almost, when they had begun to accuse him of being able to prevent it. John hadn't been able to say a word, in the end, but he'd just leaned against he wall with a sick taste in his mouth until Sherlock shot out of the building with a swish of his dark coat.

John hated the quiet. He hated it so much right now. That bitter taste hadn't left his mouth and it tasted like poison on the back of his tongue.

His gaze had been glued on his window, but now he looked up, glancing sideways at Sherlock. The detective was looking out his own window, posture stiff. Maybe John was imagining it, but he thought Sherlock was even more quiet than usual.

John almost said something, almost asked if Sherlock was okay, because this behaviour was most definitely not normal for him, when they pulled up to 221B. Sherlock slipped out of the cab without a back glance and briskly walked to the door, leaving John to pay the fare. He was slightly disgruntled but not surprised.

Sherlock was on the couch, his jacket thrown haphazardly onto the chair. He was sitting slumped, fingers steepled in front of his face, his eyes directed at something floor-level that John couldn't see.

John deposited his own coat on the back of his own chair, planning to make a cuppa for himself before hitting the bathroom for a long, hot shower. He needed to ease some of his tension out, if only a little.

"Sherlock, do you want..." John trailed off, as he had turned his attention back to Sherlock. Sherlock's gaze had whipped up at the mention of his name, but he had looked away quickly enough afterwards. Sherlock had caught his gaze for only a moment, but it was enough. His eyes were glassy, shiny, gleaming. He blinked rapidly, a few quick times, before he had looked away. His fingers steepled in front of his nose once again, although his jaw was clenched and he was now avoiding the doctor's eyes.

John recognized the signs; he had dealt with so many fussy younger patients in his office. They were prone to waterworks. Sherlock Holmes wasn't.

"... a cup of tea?" he finished, only a few seconds lost between his initial sentence and the finished part of it. John couldn't analyze things as quickly as Sherlock could, but he had picked up some face-saving behaviour now and again.

"Milk and sugar." Sherlock's tone was clipped, but his voice was steady. John would have rethought his assumption if he hadn't see the symptoms firsthand; he would have passed it off as a trick of the light, but he had seen it. If it had been anyone else, he would have passed it off as unimportant. But this was Sherlock, and John only had to look once to realize when the detective was, somehow, close to a rational, human response.

John brewed up two cups of tea, one for himself and one for Sherlock. It was still silent, but John was settling into it now. It was awkward to think of Sherlock being reduced to such a state, but, at the same time, he found himself to be more comfortable than he had been for the better part of the hour. Maybe it was just nice to know that Sherlock was only human, even if he claimed that he did not entertain normal, human reactions.

He passed the cup off to Sherlock. Sherlock took it, hands steady, and sipped from it. John was watching the detective now, inobtrusively, over his teacup. The fleeting moment seemed to have passed, although Sherlock still seemed like he was going to make no move for physical activity or verbal communication. John didn't mind.

They finished their tea in silence, both of them, John was sure, trying not to think about the day's events.

He didn't know what had caused Sherlock's strong reaction, or what had caused to react at all, for that matter, and he was fairly certain that he would _never_ know. Maybe it had been something in his childhood that clicked with the murder, maybe it had been the reality of being wrong, of doing something wrong, of not saving the child. Perhaps it was just a case of Sherlock realizing that he did have emotions and that it was okay to show them.

The last option was a far stretch and John knew it, but, whatever the reason, he didn't mind Sherlock's display. He would never say anything of it and he knew Sherlock wouldn't, either; neither of them would probably talk about this case again. Regardless, it made John a little bit more comfortable just to know that Sherlock, despite all of his insecure flaws, really did care.

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**This actually may end up being a series of oneshots that promote Sherlock's humanesque side.**

**What do you think? Reviews are fuel for my fingers (to type). Ta!**

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**If you would like to see a human-ish scenario, let me know. You know, the stuff we never see Sherlock do when he probably should. If I can work it in character, I will do it for you.**


	2. Sherlock's Sleepy

It was quiet in the taxi. John was tired. Oh, so tired. It was just past nine in the evening. Sherlock had had him running all over London today, literally, and metaphorically, as he had chased down information and then the criminal, too.

Sherlock was sitting beside him, slumped against the window. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. John wasn't surprised.

He rest his head against the window as well, relishing in the cold. He was looking forward to simply getting home and having a kip.

The ride was short, thank God. John was almost sure that he would have fallen asleep in the cab had the ride been longer than the twenty minutes it took to get home.

"Sherlock, you've got cash, right?" he questioned, looking sideways at the detective again.

John didn't recieve a response. It wasn't really a surprise, but all he was asking for was a simple response. Sherlock had better of had cash, lest they would be in trouble. John didn't want to run upstairs just to grab the money and go back down just to pay the cabbie. He just wanted to sleep.

"Sherlock?"

Still, his companion was silence. John sighed.

"I take that as a hint, then. '_John, pay for the cab_'," he muttered, mocking Sherlock under his breath. "I just don't see why you can't pay, just once in awhile, you know."

He went silent then, pressing his head against the window again as he waited for the cab to roll up outside Baker Street.

When it did, he decided to, once more, question if Sherlock had cash on him. For the third time, silence. He grumbled under his breath, opening his door after a quick explanation to the cabbie. Sherlock still didn't move. John paused.

"Sherlock?"

The lanky detective didn't move from his position, still slumped against the window. The only sign that he was still alive was the gentle rise and fall of his shoulders.

"Sherlock?" He reached across the cab, shaking his companion's shoulder briefly. Sherlock jumped. "Were you asleep?" John didn't know why it was such a strange topic to consider, but, there it was.

"What? No, not at all. We're here? Of course... Money, money..." He searched his pockets, handing over the money. "Get the change, John," Sherlock ordered, climbing out of the cab afterwards.

Frowning, John watched him stumble to the door of 221B before he vanished inside. Shaking his head, John collected the change and, after a quick thank you, followed Sherlock in.

Sherlock was already passed out on the couch when he walked in.

John smiled.

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**Sorry for the wait and sorry for the very short drabble! I hope you enjoy! Sherlock's sleepy...**

**Reviews are to me as the Crown Jewels are to Jim. **


	3. Sherlock's Squirmy

A forty minute taxi cab ride from somewhere north of St. Albans to 221B Baker Street. John found himself bored.

It had been an invigorating case that had lasted the past two days. Sherlock had been running on adrenaline, tea, and coffee, and John, on those three combined with anything with copious amounts of sugar. It had been invigorating. John didn't say it had been fun.

But going from chases to forty minute cab rides... Yes, that was a bit dull.

He almost glanced at Sherlock, about to open his mouth when he noticed the detective shift positions. John almost frowned- Sherlock, the amazing statue, moved? Twenty minutes into mocking stone and Sherlock had moved? Sherlock hadn't even so much as _breathed_ heavily since they got into the cab.

"Everything okay?" he mused.

"Fine," was Sherlock's terse reply.

"You sure?"

"I'm fine."

Over the course of the next ten minutes, John became more fine-tuned. He noticed each time Sherlock shifted, just the slightest bit. And Sherlock Holmes did not _squirm_.

John wasn't the consulting detective here, but he was pretty sure he had it figured out.

"You need the loo, don't you?" He felt bad when he heard the humour in his own voice.

Sherlock flinched a bit. "Of course not."

"Sherlock, I'm a doctor. I can spot things like this, now and again."

Sherlock's head snapped up, his blue-gray eyes settling on John. "Okay then, _doctor_, I suppose you didn't need to ask the question in the first place then, did you? If you'd just stop and _think_," Sherlock spat the word, literally, and it was dripping with vemon of the most acidic kind, "about all of the beverages consumed over the course of the past ten conscious hours that I have been awake, not to mention that _someone_ has been running around those past ten hours trying to catch a killer, and not to mention that someone _else_ flapped on about _dehydration_ during all of this then I know for a fact that you already know my answer!"

"Okay, okay, just... calm down. Thinking about it won't help." Sherlock made a noise that sounded like the cross of a scoff and a groan. John had never really heard Sherlock make that noise before. He was hit with a pang of sympathy. "Just ten more minutes."

The next ten minutes were possibly the most tense minutes out of the whole past two days.

John would have offered to pay for the cab if Sherlock wasn't so damn stubborn. He insisted on paying. To fake a sense of normalcy? What was to prove?

Instead of arguing, because John knew it was a bad idea, he just stayed silent.

Sherlock's hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door. John took the key and unlocked it for him, all but shoving the detective over the threshold.

He probably would have made a comment about it later, something about how _that_ was bloody unhealthy, ten hours, or made a joke about 'control' and Sherlock's composure, but he didn't.

Sherlock really hated those human moments. His anger was just a bit... unsettling.

John didn't say a word the rest of the night. (He thought Sherlock might punch him.)

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**Yes, there is a fine line where I believe Sherlock would get volatile over something like this, seeing as how something so stupid has turned into a dire _need_, not a _want_. And don't say the chapter's weird... This IS just another humanity check. Sherlock needs the loo just like everyone else... occassionally. xD**

**Reviews are loved, as usual! I'm thinking up ideas with the suggestions you've given me!**


	4. Sherlock's Lonely

Sherlock was standing at the window, halfway through a long-winded tangent on the inferiority of the criminal class, before he realized that John was gone.

He realized that he should have noticed before this. He noticed everything. Yes, he _does_ notice everything; maybe it was the just the fact that he _had_ noticed and hadn't processed it. He _had _been assessing different types of home insulation for the past week, after all, so why would he catalogue John's every movement. Yes, that was it.

He narrowed his eyes before he wandered away from the window. Boredom was creeping into his mind. Normally, he would have just kept talking out loud; however, when he noticed that John wasn't there, it tended to decrease his desire to actually _speak _at all.

Throwing himself onto the couch unceremoniously, he let the heavy sigh slip from in between his lips. Boredom was tedious, tedious matters led to boredom. It was a huge circle of neverending torment.

It was worse when John wasn't there.

He groaned, dangling his arm over his eyes. If this continued for much longer, he was going to revert back to nicotine patches, and then John would yell at him when he got home.

Although, John yelling at him would be better than the silent boredom that he was dealing with now...

He peeked under his arm towards John's chair, sighing quietly to himself.

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**Working slowly. Been a bit of writer blocked lately. I know what my next two will be (I have a pattern here. The first three were Sherlock's -enter work that begins with 's'- now it's the letter 'l'. Yeah) but yeah... bit not good that I'm not in the mood to write. We'll see. Hopefully my skills flip back on soon. xD**

**Reviews are lovely! Keep it up, friends!**


	5. Sherlock's Lost

Sherlock pried his eyes open, blinking hard a few times. The daylight was a bit of a shock to his system, but he blinked that away quickly. The last thing that he had noticed, he was laying on the couch in the complete darkness of a room at two a.m. Of course, he had notoriously gone off to his mind palace and come back to find he was in a total different reality than the one he had disappeared into, so he wasn't as surprised as he maybe should have been.

He sat up, blinking hard again. It wasn't daylight- the light was too white, too bright. It was artificial, naturally.

There were structures around him, things that didn't seem to have much use. The place had a faint smell of paint about it, but also... something sugary. Something pastry-like. Paint and pastries didn't go together, unless it was a pastry shop that had just been newly renovated.

But that was wrong, too. It was a run down place. The floors were covered in dirt and dust, at least an inch thick. He ran his fingers through it experimentally; the floor was linoleum underneath.

Strange... He wasn't getting a feel for where he was.

He hauled himself to his feet, stumbling slightly. His legs were asleep. He had been unconscious, or at the very least, stationary, longer than he had previously thought.

He found his way to the door, pushing it open. Daylight outside. He blinked again, out of reflex.

He didn't care so much about what had happened- there was a list of things that could have happened, and none of them were particularly interesting. He was more focused on the fact of the building and the city and the surroundings-

He didn't know where he was.

The smells here were countering each other: food and industry, town and country, eastern London and southern London. The sounds were the same: quiet but noisy. The sights were... dismal. He'd immediately say he was in the slums, the old industry part of London, but... something was just buzzing about it.

It just wasn't coming together. Sherlock paused with his hand on the rusted banister.

It wasn't... making sense.

Eyebrows furrowing and sighing in resignation, he pulled out his phone to activate the GPS.

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**It's not very likely, I know. xD But it's funny to think about. (Especially the idea that he had to look at his GPS. :D) Reviews are, you know, fuel. Keep them coming! Thanks!**


	6. Sherlock's Longing

Sherlock sighed heavily, sinking down further on the couch. The only thing that's kept him company the past two hours is the three nicotine patches on his left arm. He doesn't mind, of course, because he's used to that. Nicotine was good. He liked nicotine. He had for some time now.

Years, it had been. He'd been good ever since meeting Lestrade, really. He just stuck to the cigarettes, when he could, that was (stupid London laws), and the nicotine patches when bored. Sometimes, he stuck on the nicotine patches when he was thoughtful, too...

His eyebrows knitted into a firm line, fingers steepling under his chin. His past was less than celebratory.

His days at home were none of the best, especially considering his Father and his Father's preferences. Mycroft accused Sherlock of tainting the family atmosphere- it was hardly true, of course.

Then, school days. Nothing particularly memorable about those days, either. Those had been the days where he had started to develop a complex for singularity.

Onto university. It was the same old scenario, repeated again.

Sherlock drew his arm over his eyes, resisting the urge to sigh again. Sometimes. Sometimes, he just wished...

No.

Wishing did not change anything. The past was the past. It was _never_ going to change. There was no point to dwell on it.

Sherlock pressed his fingers to the patches, making sure that they would stick on for hours still. People had their problems and joys and wishes, but for Sherlock Holmes, he had his nicotine patches.

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**Prompt idea is a product of April29Roses! Thank you for the prompt! I couldn't figure out to do with the third 'l' in the Sherlock series of third humanness... Uh, you know. Lonely, lost, and now _longing!_ Thank you for your great idea!**

**I like this prompt... It's a bit of a quiet, human side of Sherlock. I dunno. I love it. Please review! It's much appreciated.**


	7. Sherlock's Hungry

The streets of London had always been a welcome distraction for John. He had loved London before he went away to Afghanistan, and he had still loved it after. Not to mention the fact that walking down the street with Sherlock at his side still held the same air of excitement that it always had, even when they weren't running after a killer.

Take, for instance, the exact moment. They had been on a case ten minutes away, investigating a robbery that had turned out to be, in Sherlock's words, elementary. John had thought the whole thing had been rather astonishing, but he hadn't said that out loud to Sherlock. Sherlock would have just said that it was astonishingly _stupid_.

"Shall we go out?"

John glanced sideways at the detective. "We are out."

"To eat, obviously," Sherlock replied in the tone that was reserved for speaking to an idiot.

"Oh. Oh, yeah, sure. Not Chinese, though, we've just had take-away last night."

"Mm."

"Or rather, I should say that I had it last night; as usual, _you_ didn't eat."

"Right, yes. I was busy."

"Busy being irritating, more like," John muttered to himself before raising his voice. "The Italian place?"

"Not the one nearest."

"Why not?" John frowned, looking at Sherlock again. "The other one is a half hour away, I'm not walking there."

"Mold."

"What?"

"Mold, they have mold. I noticed it the last time that we were there."

John frowned. "You let me eat there when you knew they had mold? Oh, God, was that why I got sick that night?"

"No, you got sick from the twenty-four hour stomach flu virus that was being housed in the Chinese shop closest to the surgery."

"Oh- why don't you warn me about this stuff if you notice, Sherlock!" John demanded, huffing. Of course Sherlock would let him get sick over pointing out what would be obvious to Sherlock.

Sherlock only looked ahead, continuing walking. John sighed...

... and then was responded with a noise he had never, _ever_ heard.

Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock's pace didn't falter but John came to a downright standstill, ogling at the consulting detective. "Was that your stomach?"

Sherlock paused upon realizing that John was not following. "Yes," he said in a tone that stated _yes, so?_

"Your stomach just growled."

"And?" Sherlock replied, frowning in distaste. "Let's go. It's a quick ride to the Italian place if one hails a cab." He turned away, drawing his coat closer to him.

John grinned and, picking up his feet, followed after Sherlock again.

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**Iwantthistobecanon,Iwantthistobecanon,Iwantthistobecanon. Unfortunately will probably never be canon. xD Anyway, a bit more dialogue than previous drabbles and... next to come, _Sherlock's Hot_!**

**I like this one. I hope you do, too! Reviews are _loved_! I am ever grateful to find that you are still following the story.**


	8. Sherlock's Hot

London had always been John's favourite place to be. Before the war and after the war. One thing that he missed when he went away, was the weather. Weather in Afghanistan could be brutal, especially when your life was on the line. John had missed London every single day of the war.

When he returned to London, the weather was a bit on the nippy side. But, over Afghanistan, John loved it. He'd take snow over dry and dusty heat anyday.

John loved the weather. Except today, he didn't.

It was hot. It was _too_ hot to simply be called hot, although John didn't have many other words to describe it. Stifling. Asphixiating. Suffocating. Burning. Nothing seemed to fit.

He and Sherlock were walking down North Dower. John had shed his jumper for the likeness of a silken button-down, but Sherlock was still wearing his Belstaff. John didn't know how the man survived, but Sherlock had survived, and thrived, for so many years while John hadn't been there. So, John didn't think he needed to worry about him.

At the same time, everytime he so much as glanced at Sherlock, John got an intense shot of extreme heat. To the point where he was starting to sweat in just his silk shirt.

He had to stop thinking about Sherlock and that stupid coat.

Ten minutes lapsed.

"Bloody _hell_, Sherlock-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I know you've been thinking; you've been loud," Sherlock complained. "I don't know what you're thinking about, but do us all a favour and stop it."

"I can't help it," John grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Let's nip in," he said, motioning to the nearest building. Air conditioning sounded like bliss at the moment.

"Let's not," Sherlock replied.

John groaned, looking forward to the moment where this heat would break. Or, at the very least, the moment that they stopped walking or the moment that they hit air conditioning.

He looked back at Sherlock, only to find the detective shrugging his coat off. John blinked at the idea of it; Sherlock wasn't Sherlock without that Belstaff coat, even if John had been mentally complaining. He just looked remarkably... normal without it.

He caught Sherlock's side glance, the somewhat sulking look that Sherlock always had when he did something he didn't want to do. John laughed.

"You sure you don't want to go in? Get an ice lolly?"

Sherlock frowned and folded his coat over his arm, looking back ahead.

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**Welcome to summer, John! Sherlock, take off your coat. Readers, review. :)**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Hyperactive_ (even though he usually is- during a case, that is.)**

**See the box? That's where your thoughts go. You would have never guessed if I hadn't said that, right? :P**

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	9. Sherlock's Hyperactive

"Sherlock!"

John had a heart-wrenching moment where he thought Sherlock was going to be laid flat on the pavement. The detective had ran out in front of traffic, muttering to himself, going on about getting to the shop fifteen minutes away to stop a murder. John hadn't understood much of it, much less how Sherlock understood that a murder was going to take place, but he hadn't expected him to run into traffic instead of following the sidewalks.

But the car came to a screeching halt just in time, Sherlock didn't look back, and John darted after him with a frantic apology to the driver.

"Sherlock, stop! You need to explain!"

Explaining wasn't even the main part. Sherlock just couldn't put his life in danger for kicks and giggles. That was so...

"_Sherlock!_" John caught up with him in time to lock his fingers around Sherlock's coat, to drag him back before he darted into the highway. "Just wait!"

"I can't wait!" Sherlock spat back, jerking away from John's grasp although he didn't go running through the cars. "There's no time!" His fingers beat an erratic pattern out on his own arm as he paced on the spot.

"Sherlock, just, take a deep breath and-"

"Come on, John!" Sherlock yelled, as he was already halfway across the road. At least the traffic had stopped.

John followed obediantly, following Sherlock through the crowds of people and over obstacles. John, who should have been better at anything duck-and-cover involved, should have been able to keep up, but as usual, Sherlock's quick-paced self was always ahead of him.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock took a forward leap over a _Road Closed_ sign, somersaulting back onto his feet. He pivoted, jumping over a missing segment of pavement, just barely catching the other side before continuing on.

John came to a stuttering stop. Too dangerous. Way too dangerous.

"Come on, John!" Sherlock's repeated command echoed back to him and John didn't pause to think before he'd followed his consulting detective again.

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**I'll leave you to your own thoughts.**

_**Sherlock's Caring**_** is up next.**


	10. Sherlock's Caring

John watched Sherlock with a look of disdain. He'd gone off to his mind palace, hadn't resurfaced, and left Greg and John sitting in an awkward silence. Usually, Sherlock told them to get out if he wanted to lock himself in his palace, to sit on his throne, but it had been all so sudden, a break in the case, a realization, and Greg and John were left sitting in that awkward silence.

Greg cleared his throat, looking at John as if to say something. Sherlock held up a hand, stopping him without words- he was still partially in the real world, then. Greg rolled his eyes and John sighed, making to stand. He'd just go wait outside, then. Sherlock's hand suddenly closed around his wrist; John almost jumped before he glanced down at Sherlock's hand. He then looked back at Sherlock, frowning.

"Need you," Sherlock muttered, not opening his eyes. He didn't look like he'd said anything at all, in fact, but the look on Greg's face was enough to prove to John that Sherlock had really said that.

"What?" John replied, somewhat in surprise.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He looked at Greg first and then John, noticing his grip on the latter's wrist. "I said, I need you." He relinquished his hold on John's wrist; John pulled his arm back into his own lap and rubbed his wrist. "Although, I find myself a bit hesitant to bring you into action... It is more dangerous than usual..." Sherlock murmured, frowning to himself.

"I'll come," John replied immediately, standing with Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes assessed him with a hard look, a calculating look, for a few, tense seconds. Then the detective looked away and looked towards Greg. "Might send an ambulance. The probability of needing it is high."

Without another word, Sherlock stood and brushed out of Greg's office, John following behind him. "Sherlock? Sherlock, what are you planning?" The silence was dreadful, in both senses of the word, because this silence meant that Sherlock had something not so good planned. Not so good that they might need an ambulance. "Why are we going to need an ambulance?"

Sherlock finally spoke up, although he didn't look back. "Just follow my lead, and stay behind me."

John frowned and picked up the pace, falling in steady next to his companion.

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**Ahhh, overlook the slight OOC-ness! -Grin- I think this would definitely take place after Empty House.**

**The general worried-to-bring-you idea is borrowed from _Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Speckled Band._**

**As ever, looking forward to your thoughts! Up next, _Sherlock's Cold_! (I suppose I should call it _John and Sherlock are Cold. But, no. Haha)_**


	11. Sherlock's Cold

The heat was out when they went into Scotland Yard that Christmas. There had been a particularly brutal string of violent murders during the past two days, and it had finally come time for Greg to place in a call to Sherlock. John had relinquished the blanket and the book that he had been emerged in to follow Sherlock to the Yard. He had not, however, received Greg's advice to bundle up before they came, becauser Sherlock apparently didn't think it was important enough to waste breath on.

Walking into Scotland Yard was like walking into an icebox. John shivers and wonders if it's just him, until Greg wanders up and John sees him shivering, sees his breath in the air.

"Making this place into an ice palace?" John mutters, cupping his hands around his mouth and blowing into them. He should have worn gloves, but he didn't frequently cover his fingers as Sherlock did.

"I said we had no heat," Greg replied. He looked at Sherlock, then. "Did you not tell him?"

Sherlock didn't respond, only tugged his coat tighter around him. "Where's the file?" he asked instead, gloved fingers clutching his coat.

Fifteen minutes into an intricate discussion and the once-over, twice-over, thrice-over look of the case file, John was shivering. Too hard. Greg gave him a condenscending look; John smiled weakly in return. And then he was surprised when a heavy coat was dropped onto his person. He frowned, removing the coat from his head and settling it around his shoulders, looking at Sherlock, whom was now only in his two-piece and fitted shirt. "Sherlock?"

"Shut up."

"But you need your-"

"No, I don't, I'm not cold."

John knew he was lying. It only took the better part of six minutes before they were walking out of Scotland Yard, John still in Sherlock's coat, when John felt Sherlock shivering at his side. The detective didn't say anything and neither did John, although he did pass him back his coat when they got into the cab.

Sherlock took it without a word, still not giving in to any weakness, although he did fasten the buttons this time to keep the coat closed.

"Thanks, but the way."

Sherlock only grunted in reply.

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**I pretty much love this idea, too. Don't mind me. xD**

**Uh, _Sherlock's Clumsy_ is next on the list! Onwards!**


	12. Sherlock's Clumsy

"I just don't see how this whole lot can just _overlook_ something that obvious!" Sherlock fumed, tightening his scarf as they headed for the door.

"Well, not everyone of us is as intelligent as you."

"Of course no one is, but _really_..."

Sherlock was particularly testy about this particular case. Lestrade had called Sherlock in, _demanded_, really, that the detective come down to New Scotland Yard immediately. Something about needing to solve a case. No, it couldn't wait. Sherlock had been absolutely livid to be torn away from an experiment that he had been working on for the past four hours without rest. Sherlock had been torn from the experiment rudely and, according to the consulting detective, the experiment was ruined now. On top of the ruined experiment, the vital clue that Lestrade had been missing had been right under his nose. And so, Sherlock was slightly testy today.

Consumed in his anger, John supposed that Sherlock's mind wasn't exactly on paying attention to surroundings rather than pouting over a lost experiment. Well, he supposed that after Sherlock tripped, anyway.

The detective's foot caught the lip of the doorframe. He stumbled forward, catching himself on the nearby filing cabinet. John resisted a laugh when Sherlock whipped his head around to look at the door, looking half contemplative and half angry.

"What idiot put _that_ there?" Sherlock grumbled, shoving his hands into his coat pockets.

"Probably the idiotic builders," John replied in a faux solemn voice. "You know how they are."

Nostrils flaring, Sherlock turned and stalked out of the room.

* * *

**Clumsy _and_ angry. Yay! Thank you thank you thank you for all the suggestions for my next letter. I decided on which one. Haven't written anything past this, so I'm not sure which will come first here, but it will either be _Sherlock's Embarrassed_ or _Sherlock's Empathic_. **

**Keep the reviews coming :3 I'll keep the oneshots coming. Feel free to suggest an idea. (For a letter that I haven't done.) I don't bite. Thanks!**


	13. Sherlock's Empathic

_"Empathy is about spontaneously and naturally tuning into the other person's thoughts and feelings, whatever these might be... There are two major elements to empathy. The first... Understanding the others feeling and the ability to take their perspective... the second... is an observer's appropriate emotional response to another person's emotional state."  
_ (Simon Baron-Cohen)

"John! John, wake up!"

Sherlock crossed the bedroom, his bare feet hitting the floor quickly. He locked his fingers around John's shoulder and shook, determined to wake the sleeping doctor up.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it, but screams were never one of his favourite things. They could mean excitement, of course, but screams coming from his flatmate just... bothered him.

He didn't know why.

"John!"

John awoke with a gasp, sitting up too fast, a steady hand closing tightly around Sherlock's wrist.

"John, it's only me. It's fine. We're in the flat. You were asleep."

Sherlock watched the confusion of the dream leave John's eyes. He let go of Sherlock's wrist and Sherlock removed his hand from the doctor's shoulder.

John dreamt about the war. It wasn't new. But night terrors were somewhat uncommon.

"Has something happened?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Dream... just a dream..." John replied, voice muffled as he rubbed his face.

"I know that," Sherlock replied impatiently. "I meant, has something happened to trigger these attacks? These nightmares?"

"Uhm. No."

There was hesitancy, a tentativeness in John's voice that whispered to Sherlock that John was lying. Why would John lie? Why would John lie to _him_?

"John."

"Nothing, just, sorry for bothering you."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "You... you know, it's normal for you to have nightmares. You experienced many traumatic things, I'm sure, during your stay in Afghanistan. Post-traumatic stress disorder includes a variety of symptoms, anything from anxiety attacks to night terrors-"

"I _know_, Sherlock," John interjected. His voice was not kind.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, turning. John was awake. That was all he had come to do. The rest wasn't his business, and John was being uncooperative.

He paused at the door, rethinking. John had said _"... sorry for bothering you"_. That didn't seem to be a normal response, did it? Awakening from a night terror and saying sorry? Oh. John thought that he had been trouble. That he had made trouble for Sherlock with his screaming. Well, there was no lie in that, because the screaming _was_ annoying, but-

"You don't have to apologize. It's completely normal." The words were out of his mouth before he gave them a thought.

Silence ensued.

Sherlock made to continue out of the room, to close the door again, when he heard John's quiet tone voicing a soft "thanks, Sherlock" in the darkness.

Sherlock closed the door to John's bedroom quietly, wondering if he had, somehow, just given into sentiment.

* * *

**Another post-Reichenbach, I think, but. Ohmigosh. I love it. I so love it. Dx BritLitChick, _Sherlock's Embarrassed _is coming up next, which I also enjoy that one -has it written-. This round of 'e's will be followed by 'a's -got the urge to work on these last night; got five finished-, but after the 'a's... someone name a letter! The first person to name a letter, or a suggestion, will be the one to decide what letter I'll be using after 'a'.**

**Thanks!**

**EDIT: Thanks to Sky Writes, the next letter (after my 'e' and 'a's) will be q! So, if you have a suggestion, lemme know.**


	14. Sherlock's Embarrassed

"Sherlock, did you have an eye patch when you were a kid?"

Sherlock glanced up from the book in hand, eyes locking on John. "Excuse me?"

"An eye patch. Thing you wear over your eye-"

"I know what it is, thanks," Sherlock interjected, looking back at his book. He failed to see how this conversation was relevant or why John insisted on having it in the first place.

"So, did you have one?"

Sorely resisting the urge to ignore John altogether, he responded with the correct, albeit surprising, answer. "Yes. Mycroft gave it to me. It was more of a gag gift."

"Really?"

The tone that John responded in was laced in humour, lifted by amusement, and it caused Sherlock to look up again, frowning now in irritation.

"What?"

"I don't think it was a gag gift."

Sherlock paused, thinking back quickly. Of course it hadn't been a gag gift- rather, maybe Mycroft had meant it to be, but he had failed remarkably if that had been his intention- because Sherlock had, once upon an ill-remembered time, been fixated on pirates. However. How would John know about that?

Unless.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as the one-two click happened in his brain. An amused grin broke out across John's face as he realized Sherlock got it.

"Yeah, your brother told me. Wanted to be a pirate, eh?" John said, the smile never leaving his face. "It's a nice thought- Sherlock Holmes: something other than the arrogant prat he is nowadays."

Sherlock, mentally cursing Mycroft, looked back to his book quietly. No response was better in a moment like this.

"So, the whole batch and everything? Eye patch, peg leg, pirate hat? Maybe a hook?"

Sherlock's eyes ghosted over the words in his book, although he wasn't digesting one of them. Try as he may to ignore John, the words still filtered through.

"Did you pretend your four poster was a ship and you tried to avoid the sharks?"

Sherlock sat up abruptly, closing his book silently. No more than had he done that, he stood, padding barefoot towards his bedroom.

"Sherlock? Where are you going? The conversation's just getting rather enlightening!" John joked, his laughter reaching Sherlock's ears. Sherlock's ears, interestingly enough, felt warm, to the consulting detective, that was, and he reckoned that that had to be his imagination running rampant.

He closed his bedroom door behind him softly, shutting out John and escaping the spotlight that seemed to have been, in an ill fated turn, fixated on him.

Damn Mycroft. He hated him much.

* * *

**Here you are, BritLitChick! I tried to keep it as in character as I could, but with the subtlety of the embarrassment. I hope you enjoyed it. Me? I really like it. XD _Sherlock's Envious_ is up next.**

**Keep your thoughts coming, as per the usual!**


	15. Sherlock's Envious

He stared at them from his bedroom.

John and Sarah. Sarah and John. Doctor and doctor.

John had, for some God forsaken reason, brought Sarah over to the flat. A date, John had said. Sherlock had said 'dull' and retreated to his bedroom, violin in right hand, bow in left. He had no desire to associate himself with someone with far fewer brain cells, much less someone that John was calling a friend.

Friend. John and Sarah. Friends.

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings in an evil sounding note, pacing away from his doorway.

Sherlock was not pleased.

Not pleased because John had brought someone else to the flat. Not pleased because Sarah liked to look at things, _his_ things. Not pleased because he was stuck with company or stuck in his bedroom. Not pleased because he couldn't be bothered to close his bedroom door, so he kept catching them hugging or cudding or whatever it was called nowadays. Not pleased because John wouldn't disentangle himself to close the hallway door. Not pleased because-

It all boiled down to Sarah.

And he didn't like her in his flat.

He dropped the violin onto the bed, carefully, not carelessly, fixing the couple with a glare through the hall.

When Sarah had left, no more than had she exited the living room, Sherlock emerged from his room.

"The great sulking sod re-emerges," John stated cheerfully, fixing himself a cup of tea.

"I was not sulking. I just choose not to associate myself with more idiotic commonwealth than necessary."

"Don't call her an idiot, Sherlock." It was a rapid-fire response.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She is. You are, too."

"You would know," John replied in an disinterested tone, turning back to his teacup. "If I didn't know you, I would say that you're jealous. Jealous that I actually have friends, and you don't." He blew on his tea, the surface rippling, before sipping at it.

Sherlock scoffed, his bare feet slapping against the floor as he journeyed to the living room. "I don't want friends."

He had one friend. That was enough.

It was just a little weird when he found that his one friend had other friends, too.

Sherlock didn't know how John managed. Sherlock didn't know why John would want anyone else to begin with.

* * *

**My other multi-chapter new-story_ Ask Sherlock_ is a go. If you're interested in getting into something else, check that out. :)**

**Sherlock being envious is a bit difficult to manage... Anyway, _Sherlock's Angry_ is up next!**


	16. Sherlock's Angry

**Note: If you are currently reading _The Casebook of Sherlock Holmes_, or plan to in the near future, I would advise not reading this chapter. This ficlet very closely follows material found in _The Adventure of the Three Garridebs_ and, if you're planning on reading it, I don't want to spoil the basic climax of the canon story. Which I have, sort of, here. So.**

**Read at your own desire.**

* * *

It was dangerous, John knew, what they were doing. It didn't take the killer showing up in the room, it didn't take John and Sherlock finding refuge in the shadows of the room, for John to know that. But, when the killer _had_ shown up, busted up their operation, forced them into a very shallow hiding spot, it had really clicked.

John had a hand over his mouth, muffling his breathing, praying that his heartbeat wouldn't give them away because it was incredibly loud in his own ears. Sherlock's fingers were fisted in John's coat from when he had grabbed him, pulled him into the shadows. But now, those fingers released, tapped John's elbow. John looked sideways at the detective. Sherlock jerked his head to the side, towards the door, and he didn't need to press his finger to his lips to ensure that John kept silent.

They could keep silent. John could keep silent. John had no doubt that Sherlock could keep silent. But the floorboards didn't keep silent.

Sherlock's hand fell to his revolver, brought it to view, John instinctively went for his own and followed Sherlock's example of pointing it at the criminal. They weren't trying to kill this guy- if they had wanted him dead, they would have shot him to avoid this confrontation- because he held a key in his mind, the missing link in this line of murders and they needed him alive to find the hostage.

"Oh, very clever, Mr. Holmes. You've found me! Colour me impressed! I had no idea that you would be able to deduce from that amount of information."

"It was exceedingly simple," Sherlock replied, eyes locked on the man.

"Really? I suppose that I was not as thorough as I might have been on another day, but alas, sometimes I really think that-"

There was suddenly a loud bang, a shot, a gun shot, and John felt pain shoot up his body. The yell broke his lips, mostly from surprise because he hadn't had time to steel himself for the pain, and he hit the floor with a painful _thud_.

Through the pain-induced haze in his mind, there was another gunshot and a crack, followed by a _thump_, and John was starting to rightfully panic for Sherlock's sake when none other than the consulting detective's voice broke the now-silence.

"John! John, tell me that you're fine before I kill this man out of spite."

It was a bit weird, and John thought that he might be hallucinating, because, over a terrible anger he heard brewing in his flatmate's voice, there was the inkling of panic.

"I'm... I'm fine," John muttered thickly, lest Sherlock lose his already wavering temper. His fingers had closed around the point of pain, lower leg, finding blood already soaking through his jeans. "It's just a, uhm, slightly worse than flesh wound."

"You are remarkably lucky," Sherlock spoke, although John had the feeling that he wasn't speaking to him any longer. "If you had damaged my assistant, I might have had to put a bullet in your brain. Or three."

Overlooking the fact that he was, in fact, damaged, John uttered Sherlock's name quietly under his breath. He was fine. There was no point to commit guiltless murder over it.

Sherlock flashed a side glance at John before, slowly, lowering his weapon. John had only just relaxed when Sherlock brought the gun up again, slamming it down upon the unfortunate criminal's head. There was another, sickening, audible crack, and the man slumped to the floor.

John shivered slightly and went to nursing his wound as Sherlock pulled out his mobile.

"Lestrade, yes," he stated in a clipped tone. "I need an ambulance. And perhaps some of your lot. Rather quickly, I daresay; my patience is wearing thin by this unfortunate excuse of a man's presence in this room and I am feeling more than ready to dismiss myself of him..."

John closed his eyes briefly against Sherlock's reign of anger, hoping like no other that Lestrade got his people here as quickly as he could.

* * *

**I _adore_ this chapter, maybe possibly because _Garridebs _is my favourite Holmesian case. And partially because Sherlock being positively angry is so... _interesting_, albeit frightening (_A Scandal in Belgravia, anyone?_). Up next, _Sherlock's Abandoned_.**

**Now, I'm ahead on the letters again, so any suggestions anyone might make won't show up for awhile. Let me saw that I know you guys do a lot of listing suggestions for a letter, mainly because I never shut up and ask you guys to, but, seriously, if there's a particular fic you want done, send me a PM. I'll work with you, but I need to know what you're looking for in particular. I'd love to get some more requests going, no matter how long it may take for them to pop up Chapter-wise.**

**Thank you!**


	17. Sherlock's Abandoned

John could hear Sherlock talking- he really could. However, he could only _hear _him talking, and Sherlock had taught John the difference between _hearing_ and _listening_.

Lestrade was chatting to Donovan, in the sort of clipped voice that said she wasn't in a good spot. John was curious- stupidly curious, like some little old gossiping lady- to know what Lestrade was saying to her.

Sherlock's tone picked up again- he'd probably found something that Lestrade had overlooked; no surprise there- and John spared him a glance. Still pacing around the room like a bat out of hell, his coat swishing behind him. John looked back to Lestrade and Donovan, refusing to take that half step closer because the movement might attract Sherlock's attention.

Whatever Donovan and Lestrade were conversing about, it was getting... ugly. John didn't know Lestrade as well as Sherlock did (or maybe he did; Sherlock didn't seem to notice the trivia, after all), but he could tell that the Detective Inspector was getting angry. Donovan didn't seem to have much happiness in return.

Donovan turned and stalked off, away from the crime scene. Maybe that would have been all of it...

... but then Lestrade followed her, an angry "Donovan!" escaping his lips. Even from where John was standing, he could hear the angered exclamation, and _oh, this is too good to miss_ was the main thought in his mind as he turned and strode off after them.

It was because of John's interest in watching Donovan get laid out by Lestrade that Sherlock was left alone. It was because of Lestrade's anger with his co-worker that Sherlock was abandoned at the crime scene.

It was because of both of Sherlock's friends leaving that they wouldn't notice Sherlock's reaction when he found that he was now alone. No one would notice Sherlock when he looked up, when he realized that he was alone, when he frowned in a somewhat perplexed manner as he glanced about the room, or when he hurriedly rushed out the door in search of his friends.

* * *

**I decided that, since I warned those who hadn't read the original story off the last chapter, I'd post another one for those who choose not to read _Angry_ just yet. For those who chose to, well, you get two chapters today! Anyway, poor Sherlock. Although the idea of Donovan getting chewed out would drag me away, too.**

_**Sherlock's Ashamed**_** (-flinch-) is next. My post warrants your thoughts, as usual.**


	18. Sherlock's Ashamed

"John, I'm sorry!"

John ignored Sherlock pointedly as he stalked away from the harbour. He was sopping wet, his jumper was heavy, and his trousers were clinging to him in _all_ the wrong places.

Sherlock had had this utterly brilliant plan to go back to the crime scene, the harbour, and recreate the scenario that may have happened. What even Sherlock hadn't counted on was John ended up taking a dip in the Thames.

John was _furious_.

He'd even gone as far to send Sherlock a very dirty message with his beloved middle finger, one that he, until quite recently, he had never planned on using.

"Look, I didn't know-"

"Oh, _shame_," John spat, shivering as he continued to put more distance between himself and the water.

"John, I'm ashamed to say that I didn't know the wood was rotted out! Isn't that good enough for you?"

"_No_, it's _not!_"

Sherlock had been apologizing ever since John had struck the surface of the water. He must have had murder in his eyes when he resurfaced because Sherlock never apologized. _Ever._

"I don't know what else to say!" Sherlock fired back; John could hear the man's patience waning, but couldn't find it within himself to care.

"You are so _stupid_," John hissed, shivering hard again. If he didn't get out of these clothes, he was going to come down with pneumonia. What a terrible time _that_ would be.

"I should have realized, I just, I," Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

"_Stop_. Just... stop."

He didn't care that this was one of the only times that Sherlock was admitting, straight-out and abashedly, that he was wrong. John was _cold_, damn it! He was cold and tired and he had taken a swim in the _Thames_ and now his shoulder was just going to _ache_...

"I can't believe I didn't _see_..." Sherlock was muttering, in a tone of disbelief. John glanced at him glaringly, noting the detective's distraught look. Probably shocked at himself for not noticing. Maybe ashamed of himself for not noticing.

Good.

John hoped he suffered with those thoughts.

* * *

**Ahaha... ha... Oh goodness, I'm so sorry, this is terrible. xD I only have, like two of these things that I don't like, and this is one... And I can't decide if it should be called _Sherlock's Ashamed_ or _Sherlock's Apologetic_, but you can decide for yourself.**

**Anyway. Moving on. I have a new multi-chapter (go figure, right?) called _Ask Sherlock_. I think I've mentioned the idea for it before, now I've actually started it, in case anyone was wondering.**

**Uhm. Next. What's next. I forget what's next. I'm-I'm a wonderful author. xD Oh! _Sherlock's Queasy_. (I've got too many of these things. I'm losing track. xD)**

**Your thoughts are rewarding, as is the usual. Also, it's been quite a few chapters since I've started this, and I just wanted to say thank you for all of the support. You really have no idea what it means. Thank you.**


	19. Sherlock's Queasy

Sherlock rolled over on his makeshift bed- aka, the couch- nuzzling his face in the crook between the pillow and the back of the couch. He stiffened rather abruptly, however, when a solid pain hit him in the stomach.

There was no physical stimulant, so it was...

He sat up rather abruptly, fighting his robe and pressing his hand against his lips.

The metaphorical punch to the stomach brought a whole new feeling- nausea. His stomach was turning in upon itself, it felt, and he snaked an arm across it uselessly. He tried to think back- what had he eaten?- when the nausea hit again. He gagged and applied more pressure to his mouth; he would not vomit, whatever it took. There was no chance. He would not be reduced to that state.

He swallowed, taking a deep breath through his nose. He was listing facts in his mind, much like people counted when they wanted to calm down. He wanted to control this base urge (was that the right word?), so he was listing facts.

_Mrs. Hudson had been to the cafe- crumbs on her shirt proved that she had had a biscuit._

_John was taking extra long- four minutes so far- in the bathroom, so it was most likely that he had a date tonight. _

_The batteries in the cheap wall clock in John's room were dying- the ticking of the second hand was getting rather slow._

_There would be take-away again tonight- John always brought home leftovers from a dinner date._

_The toes in the fridge would have to go soon- experiment wasn't going as well as it should and things were starting to smell- _

Sherlock choked on the thought (these really couldn't be considered facts, could they? They were too dull), forcing down the notion to vomit last night's dinner (cakes from Mrs. Hudson; it had been Monday and she had brought home sweets) onto the coffee table (which held the Daily Mail, the bills, and the violin bow). Interesting concept, the thought of his experiments making his nausea redouble. Normally he wasn't put out by the thought of decay, quite the opposite, actu-

He tightened his grip on his stomach, swallowing again. The burn in the back of his throat and the acidic taste in his mouth were not pleasant indicators of the situation; at the same time, he wasn't sure that he wanted to open the fridge to grab the milk.

He took a deep, shaking breath, grateful that John (now six minutes extra in the bathroom, but at least the shower had come off) wasn't here to see him in this state.

Sherlock stood, preparing to retreat to his bedroom before John could resurface and 'doctor' him.

* * *

**I actually rather like this chapter. Yep. I love sick!Sherlock, though. (Who doesn't? [Also love me some sick!John, too, though...])**

**Your thoughts are welcomed, as usual. (: Up next, _Sherlock's Quarrelsome_. **


	20. Sherlock's Quarrelsome

"It was all very dull," Sherlock stated, not looking up from his magazine.

"No, really, tell me. I want to know," John insisted.

Sherlock, irritated, threw his magazine down. "Why?"

"I just wanna know."

Sherlock sighed heavily.

_"It's a sodding head!"_

_"I have been aware of that very obvious fact for a _very_ long time now, I assure you."_

_"In my fridge!"_

_"I didn't see a problem with it."_

_"Di- Didn't see a _problem _with it? I see several problems!"_

_"Obviously."_

_"Get it out, now!"_

_"The experiment's not finished. It needs to chill for three more hours."_

_"_Now_, Mr. Holmes!"_

_"Don't be ridiculous."_

_"So help me... I have had enough of this!"_

_"Well, you _could_ end it rather quickly by walking away-"_

_"Get. The head. Out!"_

_"No."_

_"E-Excuse me?"_

_"I said 'no'. Are you hard of hearing now, as well as mortifyingly obese?"_

_"Wha- Get out!"_

_"Pardon?"_

_"Get out of my flat!"_

_"Technically, it's _my _flat-"_

_"_Not anymore!_"_

_"Oh, so now we're reduced to this. Kicking me out."_

_"Get out or I will call the police!"_

_"For me refusing to leave my own flat? I pay for it."_

_"This is my building! You have to follow my rules!"_

_"I don't have to follow anyone's rules, actually."_

_"Get out!"_

Sherlock looked back at John, leaning back on the couch. His fingers were now steepled under his chin, as he had found himself rather getting into the story of why he had been kicked out of his old lodgings on Montague. "I proceeded to tell the disgustingly overweight man that I would be out before night fell..." he trailed off, smiling a bit fondly to himself. "Although I made sure to stay for at least three more hours, so my head experiment wouldn't be disturbed."

John snorted in laughter. "Jeez, Sherlock, you probably drove that man up the wall!"

"He could have used the exercise. It took him forty seconds to get up the stairs," Sherlock replied in a mocking near-monotone, happily remembering all the times that he had drawn the man up to the flat due to some ruckus. He had rather enjoyed tormenting the man.

"Not to mention that you seemed to be more rude than usual."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Oh well. Facts are facts."

John reached for his teacup, grinning. "You argumentative, rude man," he said, although Sherlock heard the affectionate humour lacing his words.

* * *

**Ever since I read about Sherlock having a disagreement with his previous landlord on Montague Street (BBC!verse!canon), I've wanted to write something for it. **

**Starting Friday, I'm going to be somewhat busy/have a lot on my mind (work related!). Hopefully, I'll remember to update this thing, but if not, just bear with me. Thanks!**

_**Sherlock's Quiet**_**, up next!**


	21. Sherlock's Quiet

Silent.

So silent.

Sherlock shifted slowly, unwilling to disturb the peace around him. He was currently stretched out on the couch, one arm hanging limply. That arm had two nicotine patches on it, but he had long since deleted that fact.

Everything had been so simple. So... effortless.

The simplest things always made the hardest cases. The tiniest item could make the case most perplexing.

Sherlock had missed something. He had missed something, one tiny, little thing. He had caught it, of course, but too late. Almost. But no. Still too late. They had watched the bomb go off from not one hundred feet away. His ears had been ringing ever since. But not with the noise. They were ringing with the silence. The silence that had followed.

He had been trying to think. Trying to... place an explanation. The reason that he had failed. The cover story for those who would ask, when they would ask, because they all would, in the end. Inevitably.

Sherlock let out a brief sigh, something barely heard. It barely broke the silence.

"Sherlock?" John's voice- worried- broke the silence, then. Sherlock ignored him. "Sherlock, it's been three days."

Sherlock continued to ignore him, closing his eyes again. He drew in a deep breath and held it there, letting it stay home in his lungs until he _had_ to exhale. Breathing. Breathing was a sign of life. That was all John was going to get out of him.

"Sherlock, _please_," John started, raw emotion in his voice. But the doctor stopped quickly, and when he next spoke, his tone was measured. "No one blames you, Sherlock."

John thought that Sherlock was feeling guilty. He wasn't- not anymore than he normally did when people he was supposed to save died, really- but he didn't care to voice that out loud. He wasn't voicing anything out loud at the most current moment.

"Just... say something," John said, a pleading note to his voice. "Please."

Sherlock didn't move, save for his continued meticulous breathing.

If John didn't like the silence, then he could get out of the house.

* * *

**So sorry guys. I've been in a non-writing funk. I think I dispelled my writer's block last night, though. I wrote a Caring!Martin and sick!Benedict fic that I can't post on FF for the non-fictional characters. But, did you know that Ben had pneumonia through filming Season One? I appreciate him so, so much more after finding that out. But, anyway, that's what my story was about. So, I think I dispelled my writer's block. xD**

**Anyway! Somewhat dark chapter. Well, maybe dismal. But... it's a bit not good, either way. [I like it.]**

**Sorry for the wait! _Sherlock's Trusting_ [and severely injured] is next!**


	22. Sherlock's Trusting

"Sherlock, you've got to-!"

"I'm not going..."

"Sherlock-"

"_Not_," Sherlock rasped, stumbling away. He stumbled too much, crashing to his knees when he tripped over the lip of the living room door. John hit his knees next to the detective, gripping his shoulders.

"Sherlock, _please_-" John choked, his emotions getting the better of him. Sherlock was dying- Sherlock was dying, damn it, and John knew it and Sherlock knew it, too.

"No..." Sherlock muttered, body slumping slightly into John's arms.

"Sh-Sherlock?!"

"Just stop..."

"I can help, Sher-lock." His voice was snapping, breaking in all the wrong places. He was determined not to cry. He _couldn't_ cry...

"Mmmph..."

"I don't know- don't know what you're saying there." John laughed slightly, in hysterics, really, holding his detective tighter. "Speak up."

"... S'rry..."

"What- No. No, no, Sherlock, let me, please, I won't- won't even take you to the hospital, I can fix you, I can stop it, I mean, what's London without you?"

Sherlock slumped further, his forehead hitting John's shoulder.

"Sherlock!"

There was something else murmured; John didn't catch it.

"What?" he breathed, choking again on the word.

"... fine..."

"F-Fine? You mean, I-" John stopped, shaking his head hard. "You know, I don't even know what you mean, but I'm _not_ letting you die."

"... My life's... in y'hands, John Watson..." Sherlock murmured, almost seeming to chuckle to himself.

John only took Sherlock's hand tightly and set to work.

* * *

**John's too stunned and scared to properly act at first. Sherlock's too stubborn. And then, Sherlock realizes that he maybe doesn't want to die, much less in John's arms. And John realizes how much Sherlock really trusts him. AND OH MY GOSH I WANT TO WRITE A SPIN-OFF/ACTUAL STORY TO THIS. xD Might do that. I'm not sure.**

**I need a new letter, you guys. I'm so kind of put off with this, and have no idea whatsoever to do. So, suggestions are good, if you have any. Thanks for the support.**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Thankful_.**


	23. Sherlock's Thankful

Sherlock coughed, flinching. "Jo-John!"

John perked up, scrambling through the kitchen to go to Sherlock's bedroom.

"John- my-" His words were punctuated by coughing. "My chest-"

"You got hit pretty hard, Sherlock. You have bruising. Do you want some ice?"

"Just- I- huh..." Sherlock trailed off, losing his breath to his coughing.

John frowned and turned, walking back to the kitchen to grab an ice pack, a pack of crackers, and some water. He then returned to Sherlock's side. "Here, have a drink."

Sherlock actually didn't argue, just took the water with shaking hands and unscrewed the top off the bottle before sipping at it. Meanwhile, John was ripping open the crackers, pulling two out for the detective.

"Nibble on these as well, now. It's the best I can do for a cough immediately... I'll make you some tea with honey and you'll need another dose of paracetamol..."

Sherlock sank lower onto his pillows, looking much like a sulking, pained child as he massaged his chest and nibbled on the crackers.

"Here's the ice pack, if you think you want that on... whatever." John didn't know what was hurting Sherlock the most- Sherlock had taken quite a beating during their last escapade. John knew for a fact that Sherlock had several terrible bruises, and probably more were going to appear.

"Ugh..." Sherlock muttered, dropping his arm over his eyes.

"You need to go back to sleep, Sherlock..." John said quietly, fixing the detective's blankets.

"I ache," Sherlock replied in a dull tone, a tone that spoke of not caring about self-image, for once, and a tone that spoke of only pain and suffering. Something John wasn't used to hearing from Sherlock.

"I know... I'll get you some stronger painkillers when I go into the surgery tomorrow. Until then, paracetamol is all I can give you."

Sherlock laughed quietly, removing his arm. "Well, I guess I'm lucky."

"You are," John replied. "I've seen people die from wounds less severe."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Not that... I'm talking about you."

"Me?" John repeated, frowning. "What about me?"

"'m glad I have a doctor in the house," Sherlock muttered, reaching for the ice pack. "It's useful... in a pinch."

John only rolled his eyes and, unable to tell if Sherlock was serious or not, went to go make the detective that tea.

* * *

**Don't mean to update so quickly, but here we are. And I wanted to say I wrote that 'spin-off' for ****_Sherlock's Trusting_****. It's called ****_The Dying Detective and the Case of the Infuriatingly Loyal Blogger_****. Or just ****_The Dying Detective_**** for short. And I'm not proud of it or anything. So, blame yourselves if you think it's bad. xD**

**Up next, ****_Sherlock's Thirsty_****. And then I'm doing 'B's and 'P's. Finally getting back into this. :D**

**Thanks for reading!**


	24. Sherlock's Thirsty

Sherlock had gone into the flat ahead of John, leaving him to pay for the cab and lock up behind him.

"Oi, Sherlock, d'you think you could pay for the cab just one of these days? I have things I need to save money for, too, you know."

He stepped into the living room, flashing his eyes towards the kitchen where Sherlock was. He hadn't taken off his coat or scarf, but was just getting a bottle of water out of the fridge.

"What do you need to buy?" Sherlock replied curtly, as if John had nothing else in the world but cab fares to pay for.

John rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat as Sherlock popped the top of the water bottle, pressing it to his lips. John draped the coat on the back of the chair, grabbing the remote for the telly to flick it on. He sank heavily into the chair, sighing.

"You wanna make some tea?" he asked, looking back towards Sherlock.

Sherlock paused in his long draw from the water bottle, fixing John with a look that said very much _You've got to be kidding me, right?_ before he took another drink.

"Thirsty?" John mused, watching as Sherlock finished off the bottle. The detective sat the empty bottle on the countertop before grabbing the teacup from breakfast, swishing the liquid slightly before drinking that down as well.

"Dehydrated," was Sherlock's sole response.

"What?" John frowned, concern filtering through his mind. "How do you know?" Or rather, how had Sherlock, who didn't take care of himself at all, really, notice before John, the doctor, did?

"Headache. Only have headaches when I'm dehydrated."

"Oh." John didn't need to say that Sherlock was probably right- headaches were a sign of dehydration and Sherlock didn't drink near enough. "So, you were thirsty," John said, answering his own previous question.

"No. I was dehydrated."

"Sherlock, thirsty, dehydrated. It's kinda hand-in-hand."

"Actually, it's not."

"Yeah, don't admit that you're human."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock replied indignantly.

"Nothing, Sherlock, nothing." Some more silence. "So, you're really not going to make that tea, are you?"

Sherlock only snorted, returning to the window.

* * *

**Very dull chapter, really. Sherlock admits he can be affected by humanly problems. John doesn't know how he didn't notice. In the end, cold tea asides, it's fine. It's all fine.**

**Up next, ****_Sherlock's Bloodied_****. [Kudos to the person who suggested it; great idea!] It makes up for this chapter, I promise.**


	25. Sherlock's Bloodied

John had seen him come home covered in blood before, so why was he having such a fit now?

"John- _John_, I'm fine," he griped, trying to fend John off as the doctor went for his coat. "It's just a minor wound, leave me alone."

"Sherlock, God, you're covered in blood, don't say it's nothing!" John said, fingers latching onto Sherlock's coat and wrenching it open. "Jeez, what did you _do_?"

"John," Sherlock protested, anger flaring up. "Leave me alone!" He didn't mean to be so ungrateful- or maybe he did, really- but the gash across his chest was paining him too much to properly function. The cloud of pain was beginning to disturb his rational thinking. He wanted to go back and have a nice, long soak in the bath and let the hot water take him to a totally different world. He'd missed his criminal, he'd missed his chance, and sod it all, it had been a long shot, but he had felt good about the whole thing. Now? _Now?_ He had missed his criminal, he had missed his chance, _and_ he had a long gash stretching from shoulder to ribcage. It wasn't deep and it wouldn't scar, but it was bleeding enough and it hurt.

John worked Sherlock's coat over his shoulders, not that Sherlock didn't struggle. Except, he couldn't struggle much, because it _hurt_.

"Stop _moving_, Sherlock!" John all but yelled, taking Sherlock's shirt and unbuttoning it. Sherlock swallowed back the groan that threatened him when John worked his shirt open, peeling it away from the wound.

"John-" he started, but John cut him off.

"This is _not_ a minor wound, Sherlock! Why do you play these things off as not important? _Stop it! Sit down!_"

"I'm bleeding all over the carpet, John! Mrs. Hudson will be appalled!" Sherlock retorted quickly, gripping the back of the armchair when a wave of vertigo hit him. He had hoped that John wouldn't notice- but John noticed.

"Sherlock Holmes, sit down! _Now!_"

Oh, John was really very angry. John only took that tone when he was very angry, which was, admittingly, not as often as it probably should have been. Sherlock had heard a lot of people angry before. His old landlord. Sally Donovan. Several angst-ridden teenagers stuck in St. Barts for one reason or another. Mycroft. His mum. But, rarely John. Rarely John.

Why? Was it because John had been in the war, because he was a doctor? Was that why he had more patience?

Sherlock knew that he was agitating as a flatmate and eccentric in his methods, to be sure, but John rarely got _really _angry with him. Where his voice changed, where his whole posture changed, when he became someone that Sherlock could barely recognize...

Sherlock sat down.

He tried not to complain- because an angry John was an annoying John if he didn't get his way- as John worked over his wound. The pain was really reachable an unbearable point, especially with John dabbing something (probably hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol) onto the exposed wound. More than once, a hiss escaped his teeth, but John never once looked up or even seemed to notice. Sherlock should have been angry- but he knew that John was in his element now. This was John Watson, the John Watson of war that Sherlock had never _truly_ experienced.

After some time of silent work, John finally finished with the bandaging and sat back to admire his own work.

"Looks good," John muttered, getting to his feet to check the gauze that had been looped around Sherlock's shoulder. "Not too tight?"

"It's fine," Sherlock replied stiffly.

John nodded. "Take two paracetamol."

Sherlock nodded in return, standing in preparation to work his way back to the bathroom.

"No shower, either."

Sherlock paused. "But I'm covered in blood." He frowned, looking at John. "You usually dissuade me from sitting on the furniture when I'm covered in blood."

"Well, you've gotten blood on the chair already, so it doesn't matter. Plus, I want that to stop bleeding and I took the time to bandage it, so the shower can wait."

Sherlock sniffed, turning away. "You do know that I take baths, don't you?"

"No _bath_, then," John replied, putting his medical equipment back into the nearby first-aid kit. "Not for a bit, anyway."

Sherlock huffed- wincing in pain afterwards- as he trudged back towards the bathroom door. "Yes, whatever you say, Doctor Watson," he muttered, low, under his breath.

He didn't even need to look back to see John smile.

* * *

**I rather like this one. But doctor!John is another of my weakness, so... ["To be fair, it is my only weakness." (Not really. xD)] Hopefully you liked it.**

**Up next, ****_Sherlock's Bouncy_****. And, no, there's not a trampoline involved. Haha. Thanks for reading! I look forward to any feedback!**


	26. Sherlock's Bouncy

"John! John, John, John!"

"What now?"

Sherlock swiveled on his barstool, almost tripping himself as he tried to stand with his feet still tangled on the stool supports.

"Look!" He darted across the kitchen, foaming beaker still in hand. "I've created a solution that foams but instantly solidifies with one drop of gastrointestinal juice!"

Sherlock nearly tripped over a pile of newspapers on the floor as he hurried to John. "Look." He switched the beaker to his left hand and twisted the pipette between his right fingers to get a better position before depositing one drop of gastrointestinal juice into the beaker. Almost immediately, the foam disintegrated into a chalky, but solid, formula in the bottom. He looked away from the beaker to John, a sardonic smile lifting his lips. Oh, this one had had him going for _ages_, how wonderful it was to _finally_ reach a point of possible conclusion.

"Erm," John muttered, rolling up his newspaper and pushing the beaker away with it. "Where did you acquire gastrointestinal juice, Sherlock?"

"It's not toxic, John!" Sherlock complained, although he held the beaker closer to him lest John should knock it right out of his hands. "And the matter of acquiring objects is never hard if you know where to look, but you don't properly understand the significance of my experiment!"

"No, no, I don't. What _is_ the significance, Sherlock?"

"You see, John, with this substance-" he broke off abruptly, looking back to the beaker in hand. It was growing warm... too warm... almost _hot_ even. He blinked shortly before quickly retreating back to the kitchen, placing the beaker down with almost too much force. "It's generating heat now, why would it generate heat? If it continues-" There was a crack, all too telltale. A glass object heated too quickly could procure some-

He dodged out of the kitchen before the beaker exploded, tiny shards of glass showering the room where he had just recently been standing.

"Shit- Sherlock, are you okay?" John's voice was nearer, coming close to inspect damage. But Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him.

"The experiment went as planned up until a point where it was allowed to sit, idly, in which it conducted heat, strong heat, far too strong for even glass to contain. What makes it so hot? Now, that's interesting," he muttered to himself, briefly glancing around for his shoes.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"Not now, John! Don't you see?" he replied, shoving his feet into his shoes before darting back into the kitchen (not without a protest from John about the broken glass, but that's why he had put shoes on!). "If this happens with only one drop, could you imagine the sort of explosion that could come from a human stomach's quantity of it? This, this is heartburn, John, compared to the sort of pain it could be! It could be a new murder weapon- murder from the inside out! Oh, I have got to get a body." He brought his hands together quickly, surveying what was left of the beaker. "This could be legendary, John, don't just stand there, phone Lestrade! Tell him I need a body, preferably already dead! Go, go!"

He grabbed the remains of the beaker, his free hand going for a stirring stick to provoke the leftover solution further.

* * *

**In which the author knows nothing about ****_anything_**** that Sherlock is babbling on about here. xD But. Despite the he's-doing-some-obscure-experiment-that-no-one-would-understand, I think it's [he's] adorable.**

**Up next... hmm... I haven't written anything, so let me think... ****_Sherlock's Babbling_. Because I think I can have fun with that. :P**

**Thanks for the support! Sorry for the delay!**


	27. Sherlock's Babbling

**Note: If you have not read ****_Sherlock Holmes and the Adventure of the Second Stain_****, and you plan to, you may want to skip this chapter. This chapter contains some of the elements used to solve the case in the ****_Second Stain_****.**

* * *

John was sleeping.

Sherlock didn't understand it, why John went off to bed around eleven and didn't resurface for the rest of the night. Sometimes, he'd have an occassional nightmare, but those seemed to have slacked off almost entirely since he had moved in to 221B Baker Street. Sherlock knew that he _had_ had them- he was a soldier who had been invalided home, due to trauma, he had had a psychosomatic limp, an intermittent tremor, and a therapist- so, Sherlock knew that John had had nightmares. Not to mention the fact that, the first time that Sherlock met him, there were the telltale signs of someone who wasn't sleeping well.

Otherwise, John slept through the night and Sherlock was positively _annoyed_.

"John... John," he hissed, shaking his flatmate's shoulder roughly. "John, wake up!"

"Mmph... Wha's the matt'r, Sherlock?" John slurred, tucking his head further into his blankets and his pillow.

Sherlock gave his shoulder another shove. "John, I've figured something out!"

John poked his head out of the cover of the duvet, blinking sleepily. Sherlock watched as John's eyes first went to the alarm clock before meeting his gaze. There was pure annoyance, but not a trace of anger, amongst the exhaustion. Good; he wanted to talk, he didn't want to listen to John yell at him.

"I've figured out how to track down the murderer for the Gower's case," he said proudly, smirking down at John. "In just a day and a half, I've set a prominent lead on a cold case that Lestrade hasn't managed to touch in five years."

John mumbled something that was neither intelligible or likely productive, but Sherlock took it as affirmative to continue.

"The rug had obviously been moved. The stain on the exterior didn't at all match up with the stain that had bled through onto the floor. Therefore, someone had tampered with the evidence before I managed to get on scene. However irritating as that may, it really is a central point to figuring out the murderer. So, I have Scotland Yard's inferiority at handling crime scenes to thank for my being able to solve this case..." he trailed off, frowning. He had the Yard to thank...? "That's disgusting, actually, but moving on."

He paced away from John's bed, peering towards the curtains drawn up over the window. "The fact that the rug had been moved at clearly meant that there was something under that rug that needed to be checked, removed, something of that sort, do you see?" He turned, pacing away from the window again. "When I travelled to the crime scene, I was able to inspect the floor. The rug had been moved but the stain was still embedded on the wood of the floor- the Yard's lucky that the stain never was able to have been removed lest I wouldn't have been able to figure out the clue to the murderer."

He caught the edge of the curtain with his fingers, drawing it back slightly to peer out into the street. So quiet. So calm. This dastardly quiet was what had Sherlock working on cold cases, anyway, and cold cases were irritating because they never involved a fresh body. He liked fresh evidence, good evidence.

"Having taken a snapshot with my mind, I was able to ascertain where the stained part of the rug had been, and where the actual stain on the floor was, and so, I was able to search accordingly at that part of the floor. And it's quite transparent, really, but there was a loose floorboard. The new owner of the place nearly had a fit when she found that I was taking up boards from her floor, a bit comical in the long run, to be sure, but nonetheless irritating when she lobbed a dictionary at me... You would have found it hilarious, John, you and your innate ability to pick at people with inane _words_ in your ridiculous blog posts. Sherlock Holmes, murdered by the English language, I can see the headline now!" He rolled his eyes, letting the curtains fall back.

"Anyway, there wasn't anything in the empty slot where the floorboards should have been. Whatever had been there had obviously been taken away, taken out, most likely at the time of the murder or soon thereafter. Scotland Yard's to blame, of course. However, I did manage to procure a snatch of what appeared to have been the material of a very expensive dress. Upon having taken it back to the lab, I was able to trace it back to the dress in question, the shops it was sold in, and from there, I gave the whole case over to Lestrade because I could care less about tracing down old dresses from women's shops."

He looked back at John, expecting some sort of reply.

"So, what do you think? I could have used your help, if you weren't so busy with your... playing doctor and doing mundane things like sleeping-"

John's near-silent snoring broke into Sherlock's statement. Sherlock frowned deeply, glaring at the vaguely John-shaped mass in the bed. He... was asleep. He had _really_ fallen back asleep while Sherlock had been telling him something interesting? Something _this_ interesting and something _this_ obvious, that Lestrade and the others had overlooked? Normally, John would smile at the fact that the Yard missed something, but now... Sleeping?

Sherlock let out a huff, striding back to the door. "Fine. Be that way, John. See if I listen to you when you talk about saving someone's life!" he stated flippantly, leaving the room and closing the door behind himself with a definitive snap.

* * *

**Let me say it now... SHERLOCK. SHUT UP.**

**I basically took what I could from ****_Second Stain_****, because... I needed something to go on about, and when it comes to writing anything plot-involved with a crime, I'm hopeless. I do not own any of ACD's creations, nor, as usual, any of Moftiss's creations, either. **

**You guys may have noticed I uploaded something not ****_Sherlock_****! Yes! Because I uploaded something for ****_Cabin Pressure_****! And it's got Benny in it! I've listened to two episodes of ****_Cabin Pressure_****. That's it. And that's also ****_all_**** I'll be able to listen to, for a bit, but... It's good, for a radio programme.**

**Up next, ****_Sherlock's Paranoid_****.**


	28. Sherlock's Paranoid

He was paranoid.

That was the one thing that he knew, without a doubt, in that moment. And he couldn't believe it, can't believe that's he has suddenly descended to something so base, so _human_...

"Ugh!" He forced his fingers through his hair, ruffling it up as he stepped over the coffee table.

John had been gone for approximately thirty-two hours now (since Sherlock had started counting, that was). Sherlock didn't recall John saying that he was going anywhere, but he _had_ been consumed by a case for the past three days. Now that he had finally solved the case, he had realized John was gone, and he'd been, unconsciously, counting the hours of John's absence.

Thirty-two hours. (Since he had started counting.)

Sherlock stopped at the window, looking out upon the quiet streets of London. Silent, too silent. Nothing. Not even John to break the silence.

He would have tried calling him- demanded that he return immediately with milk- but he also realized that he had nicked John's phone and, for some reason, John hadn't taken it back. Maybe John had been in a hurry when he had left.

Of course, something could have always happened-

No, Sherlock Holmes, you stop right there.

There was absolutely no reason to worry. John could have simply gotten caught up at the general store, knowing John and his general ability to row with the chip and pin machines. Of course, he wouldn't have stayed there for thirty-two hours, but he could have gotten stuck at Tesco's, and then gone to his girlfriend's (Sherlock didn't know her name) and then fallen asleep. That would be about twenty-four hours, give or take, depending on how long John stayed with his girlfriend after he had woken up. That was still eight hours unaccounted for... Of course, the scenario could be different. John and Stamford occasionally hit the pub. On a bad day, John could have easily ended up drunk. He drank a bit more than the average person would have, probably a product of his family and upbringing. Stamford would have brought him home, though, wouldn't have he? Put him in a cab?

Sherlock frowned. There wasn't a logical explanation. There wasn't a particularly _pleasant_ scenario that he could conjure. Now, looking at the opposite side of the spectrum...

John could have been drugged, John could be wounded, John could have been kidnapped, John could have been murdered- all of that would definitely account for the missing hours. The good scenarios were scarce, but Sherlock wasn't good at imagining good things. The bad scenarios were plentiful, and he _was _good at imagining the bad things, but at this moment...

Sherlock found imagining the bad things made him more paranoid than ever.

He turned away from the window, breezing to the stairs and then downstairs. He would check with Mrs. Hudson, then, to see if she knew where John had vanished off to so suddenly. Those two spent a lot of time together, watching... telly, or something, right?

No more than had he stepped onto the first floor, the front door opened. He paused with his hand still on the banister, eyes flickering towards the door. John stepped in, dumping a duffel bag on the floor heavily with a sigh. He glanced up, noticing Sherlock standing there.

"Hey, Sherlock. What are you doing?"

Sherlock frowned, taking in John's state. Wrinkled shirt, worn more than once. Bags under his eyes, lack of sleep. Slight smell of alcohol, so drinking, then. Then, there was the duffel bag. It was small, only meant for one or two nights. Of course, John, being a soldier, travelled a lot lighter than most would, so he probably could have used an overnight bag for a whole week...

John's eyebrows knitted together. Probably wondering why Sherlock was giving him the assessing gaze. Sherlock looked away again, turning around and heading back upstairs.

"You forgot that I was out of town, didn't you?"

"No."

"Where was I, then?"

"The pub."

"Oh, clever. Brilliant deduction. I was out for the weekend with some of the blokes from the rugby team. If you're, you know, curious."

Sherlock ignored the amused tone in John's voice, rounding the landing without looking back.

Working with murder made one excited, but it could also make you awfully paranoid. How distasteful.

* * *

**I, when I was writing this, started out in present tense, for some reason. I think I fixed it all, but let me know if you notice mistakes. Anyway, paranoid!Sherlock, worried!Sherlock, why-can-I-only-think-of-the-bad-things!Sherlock... I like that Sherlock. Oh, well, I like all Sherlocks. Except angry!Sherlock. He scares me a bit. And drugaddicted!Sherlock. He worries me. ANYWAY. xD**

_**Sherlock's Pensive**_**, up next. Thanks for the reading, the reviewing, the follows, and the favourites!**


	29. Sherlock's Pensive

Sherlock stared up at the ceiling, fingers steepled, tapping out an irregular pattern with his fingertips. Silent, silent, too silent. He was having problems with the silence.

Maybe it was because he didn't have a case. He didn't even have a bloody experiment. And now he didn't have John.

He'd said something- according to John. He didn't know what he'd said, but he'd noticed the anger that flashed across John's face halfway through his speech. And he'd stopped immediately, frowning, looking at John and wondering why the doctor had suddenly gotten so angry.

John hadn't explained, just turned away with an angry _"Fine!"_ and stalked off across the sitting room (military march style, shoulders squared, back straight, chin up, head held high- really angry, then). He'd took off down the stairs (steady steps, measured), leaving Sherlock frowning after him.

That was twenty hours ago.

John had disappeared off to a girlfriend's house before when he was angry, had spent the night. But, John was currently having a shortage of girlfriends and he didn't have anywhere else to go...

Sherlock sighed heavily, using the opposite armrest as a foot rest as he slid further down on the couch.

He didn't know what he'd done wrong. He never _noticed_ when _he_ did something wrong, why? Why didn't he? But how did _he_ do anything _wrong_, anyway? It was only with John. He only ever knew if he did something... 'a bit not good' because of John's reaction. No one else ever said he was being insensitive, or that he being an idiot, or that he had the wrong timing, or that smiling when there were kidnapped children wasn't good. No one else ever said anything, so, Sherlock only did bad things around John? How did that work? Of course he knew that John had... affected him in ways that he hadn't been able to imagine, but...

Why would he only make mistakes around John? Only John? He wasn't consciously trying to hurt John, he knew that. He just... didn't quite understand why it happened that way.

There was the clack of the front door closing.

Sherlock immediately sat up, stepping over the coffee table. He snatched the violin off of the study desk, along with his bow, before placing it in its proper position and pulling the bow over the strings.

He didn't look up when John walked back in, but he paid careful attention to the concepts he had noticed earlier. John's footsteps weren't measured now, just aimless, a little bit hesitant. He wasn't bustling around like he normally would have; in fact, he was more quiet than usual. Sherlock didn't know if that was a good thing... or a bad thing.

His thoughts unconsciously, as always, denounced the type of music that he played. And it was only after a few solid minutes of pulling the bow across the strings that he realized he was playing something slow, something deep and melancholy, something that almost sounded somewhat remorse-

"Apology accepted, Sherlock," John stated quietly from behind him. His footsteps turned away, heading out of the sitting room.

Sherlock frowned slightly, his music coming to a halt. He looked out the window for a moment before he glanced over his shoulder. John was making tea, his back to him. Sherlock paused like that, for just a moment, watching John.

But then, he turned back around and repositioned his bow, beginning to play something that was distinctly more cheerful.

* * *

**Thinking, thinking, thinking... Oh, Sherlock. You don't make mistakes ****_just_**** around John. He's just the only one who will actually point them out to you. Silly consulting detective. :)**

**Chapter Thirty [O_O And I had originally planned on this thing being a oneshot...] will be ****_Sherlock's Protective_****. You have no idea how much I like this upcoming chapter. Mycroft shows up, but it's not necessarily good. [I'm not a particular fan of Sherlock's Brother, to be quite honest.] Thanks for your continued support!**


	30. Sherlock's Protective

John had been gone for three hours.

Normally, Sherlock didn't notice if John was gone for any time less than a day. But, today, he was bored. He'd solved the case, he'd set up an experiment that wouldn't be ready for seven hours, and he'd had his gun taken away by John before John had even stepped out the door.

He was supposed to be going to the Italian place to pick up some food. Sherlock hadn't particularly agreed or disagreed about John's decision to go to the Italian place, but his stomach hadn't been growling three hours ago. _Now_, he was hungry and bored, and it was a deadly combination.

He'd texted John- no response. Tried calling too, but that hadn't received any more response than the text. Sherlock had cursed John at that. John knew that when he called, it was important. In this case, he wanted to berate John's idleness in hopes of making him return quicker.

But.

It didn't take three hours to get Italian. So, where the _hell_ was he?

He scrambled off the couch in irritation, walking around the coffee table (his violin and various sheets of music were laying there today) and to the window. He wasn't particularly worried about John. He was just bored and hungry, and the longer that John took, the more irritated Sherlock got.

It wasn't five minutes later when Sherlock noted a sleek, black car turning onto Baker Street. He went still for a moment before, nostrils flaring, watching, just watching.

John exited the car when it had stopped, looking supremely annoyed (although he did have a bag on his arm, probably the Italian). On the other side, the door opened as well. Sherlock had the second to narrow his eyes before Mycroft's profile slipped from the car.

Sherlock backed up from the window, scowling. His _Brother_, of all people...! Was coming here! _Here!_ With no notice! Usually, Mycroft kidnapped John and sent him back alone; he didn't accompany him.

Sherlock retreated to his bedroom, slamming the door behind him. He shed his dressing gown, pulling his shirt off. No way was he going to give Mycroft a reason to smirk at him, in his what-would-be pyjamas. He slipped on a button-up, fingers working over the buttons quickly. He traded his trousers for something more suitable, topping it off with his second-best dressing gown.

He stepped into the hall just at the moment that John stepped into the kitchen.

"You took long enough," Sherlock said languidly to the doctor, although his eyes flickered away from John to Mycroft as he stepped into the room.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Mycroft said, ignoring Sherlock outright.

Sherlock looked back at John, who was fumbling around with dinner on the table. Smelled good- no, Sherlock would eat later, when Mycroft was gone.

"You are being outrageously uncooperative."

"I already gave you my answer, Mycroft," John replied with a stony-cold bite to his voice.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking back to Mycroft.

"I know. But don't think that that's the end of it, John."

Sherlock frowned, eyebrows knitting together. Before he thought, his mouth was open and he was speaking. "Mycroft, why are you irritating him now? Whatever it is that you want, he said he already gave you an answer. So, kindly remove yourself from my flat."

"This does not concern you, dear Brother."

"Well, I'd say it does, considering John _is_ my flatmate," he retorted.

Mycroft gave him a serious look, a look that Sherlock had come to recognize as a face that would make any other person stand down. A glance that could install fear of the British government. It didn't work on him.

"For now," Mycroft replied darkly. "But, for how long?"

"Mycroft!" John said hotly, slamming down a mug on the table. He'd been making tea, attempting to block them out.

"Leave my blogger alone, Mycroft," Sherlock said bluntly, stepping forward in between the two. "Whatever it is that you want, you will not be getting it from John. Now, _leave_," he stated, his voice deadly calm. He could feel John's eyes on his back as he stared Mycroft down.

Mycroft stared at him calmly for a moment, eyes assessing and just the slightest bit... angry. And then he looked away, looked around Sherlock's shoulder. "This isn't over, John. I'll be seeing you."

Mycroft took his leave then, leaving Sherlock in a much more stormy mood than he had been and John in a silence that was yet full of obnoxiously loud thinking.

Sherlock huffed, turning for the table. He ignored John's gaze altogether, although impatiently waved him away.

"What?"

"I'm hungry. You're in the way," Sherlock stated bluntly, leaning around John to grab the box of take-away from the kitchen table.

* * *

**Quick update for a chapter I love! **

**Sherlock's feeling protective [possessive?]. He just wants Mycroft to leave John alone. I'm not an avid fan of Mycroft, either... I don't really think he had anything to do with the events in Reichenbach... [I've kept my opinions quiet, yeah...] But, Mycroft berating John, annoyed John, annoyed Sherlock... I dunno, I just like it!**

**Next chapter, _Sherlock's Impressed_.**

**Your thoughts are always appreciated!**


	31. Sherlock's Impressed

Sherlock was tied up. Not literally, although that would have been possibly for them, to be frank, but he was tied up in the sense that the victim's spouse was clinging to him, spewing nonsense about the victim and the crime and, well, honestly, John was just trying to tune it out.

Sherlock had gone to talk to the woman, in hopes of figuring out more about her late husband, John supposed, against Lestrade's better wishes. So, when Sherlock ended up with a hysterical mess of sobbing blonde hanging on his arm, a little part of John wanted to laugh.

"So, what do you reckon?" Lestrade asked.

John glanced towards him. "Hm?"

"About the murder."

"Oh, I don't know. I leave the analyzing to Sherlock."

"Yeah, but you've probably picked up something, right?"

John shrugged. "You can't really replicate Sherlock's talent. But..." He crouched down next to the body. "It wasn't suicide, although I'm sure you've already ruled it out."

"How can you tell?"

"Well, look at the gun. It was obviously placed. His arms are folded on his chest. I mean, I guess it's possible that his arm could have fallen that way after he shot himself, I dunno, but his other arm is folded, too. It's a typical pose for a corpse, yeah, but would you fold your arms on your chest if you were about to commit suicide? Probably not high on your list of priorities..."

Lestrade "hmm"ed slightly in response.

"His eyes have been closed. His hair's in complete tip-top shape; there's not a hair out of place. His clothes are neat, which, if he had fallen back after shooting himself, they would be rumpled. Someone's obviously been here... They've fixed his position, made him look nice..." John trailed off for a moment, frowning slightly.

"What?" Lestrade asked. John blinked and shook his head slightly, looking up at Lestrade as the detective spoke. "You've got that look that Sherlock sometimes gets. You've figured out something, haven't you?"

"I could be wrong, but... You said that the wife didn't find him?"

"No, we did, actually. We were on the case already, meant to come here to have a chat and we found the bloke dead."

"And she wasn't at home at the time?"

"No, why?"

"Well, whoever did this closed his eyes, fixed his hair, smoothed out his clothes. They've made him look nice, respectable, which might mean that whoever did it was close with the victim..." John looked at Lestrade again. "Did he have any children?"

"No."

"Housekeeper, anything like that?"

"Not that we know of."

"Uhmm..." John cast his eyes about the room, looking for something, a clue, _anything_ that could give him a missing link...

"It was most likely his mistress," Sherlock's voice floated to John from the doorway.

"His mistress," Lestrade echoed.

"That could make sense," John said, looking at the inspector.

"Looking at the rest of it, yeah, so, we just have to, maybe snoop about his work place a bit, find anyone he might have been too friendly with?"

"Wait." Sherlock was frowning in the doorway, looking at them both. "Usually if I say 'affair', you say 'If you're making this up...'"

"Well, Sherlock, John's already led up to that conclusion, really."

"Oh?" Sherlock now looked at John.

"Erm, well, the level of grooming," John said, gesturing at the body. "He looks too nice to have just shot himself, so it was probably someone who cared about him. He didn't have kids and the wife hadn't known about it..."

Lestrade brushed past him. "I'll get someone down to his work. We'll take that lead and go from there." He walked around Sherlock and took the stairs down.

John was left with Sherlock watching him quietly.

"... Er, yeah?"

"You figured that out."

"Well, I did," John replied, a bit defensively. "I'm not stupid, y'know." Sherlock smirked slightly. John went to unzipping his scene suit, walking out of the room.

Sherlock followed, although he did take a second glance towards the corpse.

It wasn't until they were outside that the silence was broken. John had been contemplating dinner, wondering if they could get take-away again without worry about paying the rent when Sherlock spoke.

"Well done."

"Huh?" John looked up at him, sure that he had heard wrong.

"That... I mean, that was good."

John couldn't help but stare at the consulting detective, even to a point where Sherlock glanced at him and did a double take.

"It was luck, though."

"How was it luck?" John demanded.

"Any amateur could have noticed."

"Scotland Yard didn't."

"Well, that says a lot about the Yard, doesn't it?"

John turned his attention away so that Sherlock couldn't see his face, but he couldn't stop from grinning at the end of their conversation.

* * *

**Sorry for the short but still longer than normal break. I couldn't fathom how to write ****_Impressed_****, until now, at two in the morning, and this is the final result. I think it's rather nice... well, as nice as I can get it because I have no idea how to deduce the little teensy things that Sherlock does, so I fail miserably at trying to come up with a stellar deduction... **

**Anyway, ****_Sherlock's Ignorant_**** will make up Chapter 32. Let me just say... I'm bringing in the solar system.**

**Thanks for the continued support!**


	32. Sherlock's Ignorant

"So... the solar system..."

Sherlock gave a huff at John's side. John grinned, raising his glass to his lips to take a drink. "Yeah? What about it?"

"He really doesn't know about it?" Lestrade asked, taking a generous drink of his own pint.

"Is this what you talk about at these get together things? _Me?_" Sherlock grumbled, tracing a finger along the edge of his glass.

"He doesn't. Well, I'm sure he does now," John added. "Because I've made such a big deal about it. And Donovan and Anderson were laughing about it. To his face. Which he pouted about later."

"I did not pout."

"What else does he not know about, then?" Stamford questioned, popping into the conversation. "Would have thought he knew everything. You claim to, don't you?" he asked, now appealing to Sherlock.

"I don't bother with trivial matters."

"He calls it 'pointless rubbish'," John said, draining down the last of his tumbler. "But he doesn't know much about popular literature, hates anything to do with philosophy... oh! He thought our Prime Minister was still Gordon Brown until a few weeks ago."

"How do you not know that, Sherlock?" Lestrade mused, ordering another tumbler for John and sliding it to him.

"Oh, ta." John raised the glass to him.

"It's pointless!" Sherlock stated hotly.

Sherlock was defending himself, wasn't he? John grinned lazily, raising his glass to clink it with Lestrade's. Of course he was. He always had to be _right_, didn't he? Yes... Of course, of course...

"It's probably useful to know that. What if there was a scandal or something?" Stamford mused quietly, looking at Sherlock over his drink.

"Unless it ended with murder, I couldn't care."

"He doesn't care about who's sleeping with who," John remarked.

"Yet you knew that the wife was sleeping with the PE teacher..." Lestrade muttered, raising his pint to his lips again.

"That's obvious; anyone could see that."

"I couldn't see that," Lestrade said.

"Yeah, Sherlock," John added, "I didn't know it, either. Oh." He turned back to Lestrade and Stamford. "I was talking about constellations one night and he thought _Canis Major_ was a big dog. A _real_ dog. Not a bunch of stars, mind you."

"_Canis Major_ is Latin for 'greater dog'!"

"He does know his languages, though," John said. "English and French and Latin and Spanish-"

"Oh, John, do please use proper sentence structure. The overabundance of 'and' in that sentence is... mind numbing," Sherlock finished dryly.

"_Excuse_ me."

"You're drunk," Sherlock stated.

"I am not!"

"Don't be so hard on him, Sherlock. He has to live with you, after all. Give the man a time to let loose."

"I'm not drunk," John repeated.

"'Course not, mate."

"He's drunk," Sherlock repeated. "Obviously you hear the slurring that he's doing, yes, it's faint, but it's there. His movements are slightly uncoordinated, fumbling for his glass when he sits it down. His pupils are dilated-"

"Yes, now do shut up and have yourself a drink," Lestrade interrupted, pushing Sherlock's tumbler closer to the detective.

Sherlock gave it a distasteful look. "You're all intoxicated."

"I'm not drunk!"

John chuckled when all three of their voices- Lestrade's, Stamford's, and his- joined together into one collective denial. They weren't drunk. Of course they weren't drunk, Sherlock was just overly perceptive as usual...

John raised his glass to his two-non-perceptive, smiling as he drained the last of his drink.

* * *

_**Sherlock's Ignorant**_**, or, if you prefer the not-sticking-to-the-Chapter-titles-pattern title: ****_Sherlock's Being Mildly Made Fun of by His Drunk Best Mate's Drunk Best Mates_****. I wasn't sure how to handle this chapter, but then: hey, John can admit to what Sherlock doesn't know when he's half-intoxicated! Was thinking about a spin-off... because there's a reason that Sherlock's there on John's guys-night-out thing, but... Well, we'll see. xD**

**Thanks for your support! I would love to see your thoughts on the chapter, and the idea of a spin-off.**

**Next chapter, ****_Sherlock's Indecisive_****. [I think... x'D] EDIT: I changed my mind. Irony abounds. Next chapter, _Sherlock's Impatient_.**


	33. Sherlock's Impatient

**Note: At the end of the last chapter, I said this chapter would be ****_Sherlock's Indecisive_****. Irony abounds, I changed my mind. For any of you who were ****_really_**** looking forward to ****_Indecisive_****, I'm sorry. This chapter is now ****_Sherlock's Impatient_****.**

* * *

Sherlock was pacing down the halls of New Scotland Yard, fingers beating out an erratic pattern on his thigh. John was watching him apprehensively. He was all wired; they didn't have a case. That's why John had all but dragged him here, hoping against hope that they could find some cold case or _something_, because Sherlock was driving him _insane_-

"Listen, he's in a bad spot. It gets a bit... frightening... around the flat when he doesn't have anything to do."

"I would imagine," Lestrade remarked, thumbing through manila file folders idly. "I just don't think we have anything- some of these cases are years old..."

"He could solve them," John said quickly.

Lestrade chuckled. "Yeah, I know that." He glanced up. "You're desperate to get him a case."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure you know why," John muttered, casting a glance towards Sherlock again. When Sherlock didn't have anything to do, anything to think about... John didn't like to think of what Sherlock _might_ do, do to _himself_. He didn't want to think of the possibilities, but they were there.

Lestrade gave a look that read understanding, going back to the files.

"Oh, God!"

Both John and Lestrade looked up to Sherlock at the detective's explanation.

"_John_, I _need_ a case!" he said, appealing his demand to John directly. "I can't handle this, my mind is tearing away at itself, collapsing from disuse...!" His eyes flickered to Lestrade. "Something. Anything. Cold case. _Please_."

Sherlock paced in the doorway, drumming his fingers against his opposite hand, the wall, wringing his gloves in between his fingers. His hair was disheveled, looking as if he'd ruffled it many times over. His eyes were bright and frantic and just a bit _desperate_.

John hated that look. Whether it was from a case or not, Sherlock just wasn't _meant_ to look like that.

"Sherlock, I can't just pull something out of nothing..."

Sherlock gave a great huff, through his teeth, his pacing redoubling as he paced back down the hall. The entire of Lestrade's floor was watching Sherlock's movements like he was ready to pounce. John didn't know who he felt for more: Scotland Yard or Sherlock himself.

Lestrade looked guilty as he looked back to John. "Sorry, mate..."

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Yeah, no, it's not your fault. Thanks, though." He smiled faintly, turning to catch up with Sherlock.

"John, _John_, you don't understand-"

"Sherlock-"

"I can't handle the silence, the _void_ of not having anything to do-"

"Sherlock-"

"Every minute that I spend not doing something is a moment that my brain cells are collapsing! I can't- can't even _imagine_ all day without a case," Sherlock was rambling, going on about his mental state, and while he did that occasionally, this was bizarre, this was not _normal_, "I-I need _something_, John, and Scotland Yard isn't giving me a case, I need a criminal to do his _job_, preferably brutally, and not something _stupid_!"

"Sherlock!"

"What?" Sherlock whirled, glaring down at John. The anger wasn't totally there, though, not like it usually would have been.

"We're going to find something to do," John said definitively, slowly and clearly. "You're going to find something to do that will keep your mind off of the lack of crime. Okay?"

"What? How? Nothing that _normal people_ do could _possibly_ occupy me. And I'm not watching any more videos of yours- that cat video you showed me was absolutely _pointless_ and I really can't _handle_ dealing with any more trivia than I already am!"

Sherlock had started to stalk away, but John grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. "Listen to me," he said harshly, catching Sherlock's gaze and mentally daring him to look away. Sherlock didn't look away. "We're going to find something, what, I'm not sure of yet, but it won't be telly, and it'll keep your mind busy until something comes up."

Sherlock stared down at him. John could see the cogs whirring in Sherlock's mind, trying to figure out what could _possibly_ keep him occupied and not irritated.

"Maybe the museum?"

Sherlock snorted.

"Well... There's other places we can go. Doesn't have to be a museum..."

"I should hope not." Sherlock stared at him for a moment longer before sighing quietly. "Fine.

John nodded, letting go of Sherlock. "Great. Come on."

"Where are we going, then?" Sherlock asked, voice clipped.

John only smiled faintly. "I'll let you figure it out. Gives you a mystery to solve."

Sherlock frowned, eyes flickering between John and the hallway ahead.

* * *

**Impatient for a case, much? I'm sure something will turn up. **

**Next chapter, ****_Sherlock's Fascinated_. With John, really. **

**Thanks for your support and further reviews would be appreciated!**


	34. Sherlock's Fascinated

"Ugh."

Lestrade walked by Donovan and Anderson without acknowledging her. Donovan's _ugh_ was enough to make it known that she was disgusted with the situation, most likely because Lestrade had just gone to Baker Street to fetch Sherlock, and now here they all were at the crime scene.

John swung the cab door shut, stepping quickly after Sherlock. They hadn't shared past ten words on the cab ride here. Sherlock was in a bad mood for some reason, John was in a bad mood because of his job and because of Sherlock, and because of Lestrade and the Yard's incompetence and inability to solve just _one_ stinkin' case, they were now wandering about in the terrible weather, in the drizzle that had been going on periodically throughout the day.

It was not a good day.

"Had to call the Freak in, didn't you?"

John's head snapped up before he was even really aware of it. He also noticed Sherlock's half glance, at him, not at Donovan, the slightest flicker of something unreadable- but not hurt, for sure- in his eyes. That did not, however, stop John's mind taking over his mouth.

"Can we not do this today?"

Donovan glanced at him, only doing a double take after the half second look. "Excuse me?"

"I _said_, can we not do this? The name calling," he said distastefully. He shouldn't have jumped on it. He shouldn't have let it bother him. It had never bothered him before. It obviously didn't bother Sherlock. So, he shouldn't have even opened his _mouth_.

But.

He had.

"I'm not lying. You know I'm not lying," Donovan replied. "_You_ should know."

"Oh, should I? _I_ know that you're wrong, is what I know."

"Am I?"

It was once upon a time where John would see red when he was angry. Those were mostly in the days of war, when a friend got shot down, when he couldn't do anything to soothe a patient... Funnily enough, Sally Donovan managed to make him see red, too.

"John..." Sherlock started lowly. John only half-glanced at him, realizing that the detective had stopped walking, was watching him. Vaguely realizing that Lestrade had stopped walking, too. _Barely_ realizing that everyone on the case was watching them.

"What _is_ your problem with him?" John asked, thumbing at Sherlock. "What has he ever done to you?"

Anderson cut in. "Besides breathing?"

The words hit John at an odd angle. He wasn't even exactly sure that he had heard him right, but from the slow build of pain washing through his body, quickly replaced with anger, he realized that he must have. His fingers curled into fists. He took the bite of his fingernails against his palm as a pleasant distraction.

"John," Sherlock repeated. John ignored him again, instead taking a half-step towards Anderson.

He was really quite impressed when the forensics specialist didn't flinch. _Really_ quite impressed. What would it take to make him flinch? Make him cower? To make him feel the pain of what Sherlock should feel _every damn time_ that he made a snide remark? It could be an experiment. It would be a rather pleasing experiment, to be quite frank.

Anderson met his eyes, not without hesitance, but he met them all the same. John inspected him for a moment. Just a moment. How could _anyone_ be so damn heartless-

The pressure of someone's hand on his arm drew him out of his thoughts. It wasn't Sherlock's hand, he knew that, and a quick look over his shoulder determined that it was Lestrade. The detective was looking at him warily, although not without agreement.

John huffed quietly, forcing some of the tension out of his body. He turned back to Anderson, glancing at him, and then at Donovan.

"You know what I think?" he asked after a moment. When they didn't reply, he smiled slightly, sarcastically. "Jealous," he finished plainly, calmly, taking a step away. He turned and continued past Lestrade and Sherlock, zipping his jacket up slightly as he headed into the building ahead.

Sherlock didn't say anything until after they were in the cab on the way home.

"You didn't have to do that."

John didn't look up. "Yes, I did."

"It doesn't bother me."

"I know it doesn't."

"Then, why-"

"_Because_, Sherlock, I can't handle standing by while you're-" He stopped abruptly, taking a deep breath. He couldn't explain it to him. He wouldn't understand, and John couldn't make him.

"It's fine."

"It's really not."

"I don't understand why it bothers you. They're wasting their breath on _me_, not you-"

"You're my friend, Sherlock," John replied dryly.

"But friends do that?"

John rested his forehead against the cab window, resisting the urge to sigh. Sherlock sounded interested. Probably only interested in the process of it. Definitely not interested in the meaning behind it.

John closed his eyes.

He just wanted to go home. Wanted to have a shower, a cup of tea, wanted to lock himself in his room and ignore the rest of the world.

* * *

**Alternatively named: ****_John H. Watson, His Bad Day, and His Unwillingness to Put Up with Any More of Scotland Yard's Crap_****. **

**John's having a bad day. But he wouldn't punch anyone. With the Chief Superintendent, I think it was more spur of the moment and ****_that_**** made it believable. So, that's how I take it. And Sherlock's fascinated by the fact that John is concerned, upset, by those idiots comments to him.**

_**Sherlock's Frightened**_** for the next chapter, hopefully. I'm having trouble figuring out a plot, but that's the idea on my mind. Reviews abound? Keep posting those thoughts! Thanks!**


	35. Sherlock's Frightened

So, something had definitely woken him up. He wasn't sure what... but something had woken him up.

Considering that only two people lived in the flat- not including Mrs. Hudson, because it was three in the morning and she would _not _be awake- and one of those two people were rather unsympathetic to things like _sleep_...

It could have only been Sherlock.

Just go back to sleep, John. Back to sleep, because whatever it was had _not _been important...

On the brink of unconsciousness...

Another noise.

John groaned, throwing his blankets off and clambering out of bed. He was just going to make sure that Sherlock wasn't setting the flat on fire. He was just going to make sure that Sherlock wasn't fighting an assassin, or... or something.

"Sherlock, what you are-" He pushed the kitchen door open. No Sherlock in the kitchen or the sitting room. "-doing...?"

John frowned, travelling through the kitchen and down the hallway. He pressed his palm against the door, pushing it open gently and only slightly. Usually, John wasn't allowed to enter Sherlock's room; Sherlock threw a fit. (And the arrogant sod didn't even understand the concept of privacy during a shower! How could _he_ complain!) But, John really didn't have any desire to visit Sherlock's room, even if it was surprisingly neat compared to the kitchen and sitting room. He gave Sherlock his privacy when he wanted it.

Through the gloom of darkness, John squinted into the detective's room. Sherlock was curled up in bed, tangled up somewhere between the duvet and the sheets and an extra blanket that had been part of an experiment until two days ago. Sleeping, then.

John made to close the door again when- another noise. Coming from Sherlock. A sort of a... gasp.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, frowning.

Sherlock twitched, fingers closing into a tight fist, eyelids flickering. Dreaming? Sherlock was... dreaming?

"Sherlock," John voiced louder, his voice grating against the silence as he fumbled for the light switch.

The detective flinched, thrashing slightly with the blankets. His lanky form intertwined with the blankets combined with the fact that Sherlock was sleeping on the edge of the bed, anyway, sent him toppling onto the floor.

John flinched at the resulting _thud_.

Sherlock sat bolt upright, his eyes wide with what John would have called fear, his hair in a flyaway disarray. He was still tangled up in the blankets, even if he didn't seem to notice.

"Uhm. You okay?" John asked.

Sherlock flinched almost imperceptibly, his eyes flashing towards John. A moment later, his breath left him in a rush of _'oh'_.

John raised his eyebrows. "Dreaming?"

Sherlock's nostrils flared as he drew his arms out of the blanket, fighting the fabric away. "What are you doing here?"

"You were making noise. I thought maybe you were burning something down."

Sherlock stood, stepping out of the blankets. He reached down to pick them up; John noticed his hands shaking.

"Nightmares?" John prompted again.

"Of course not."

"Okay?" John replied, in the tone of a question. He wasn't sure why Sherlock wouldn't admit to it. It wasn't like John hadn't had his own share of nightmares.

"... It's always the hound."

John glanced back up at Sherlock. The detective was frowning at the blankets he was holding, studiously not looking at John, whether on purpose or not.

"Psychologically, my mind hasn't recovered from the perception of the drug. I know that it was fake, just a hallucination. I _know_ that, and yet..." He threw the blankets onto the bed. "Illogical and irrational." He looked across the room at John, as if he had just remembered that he was there. "Go back to bed, John."

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Of course I am." He really didn't sound like he believed it. "I am fine."

"Okay..." John turned, only pausing a moment later. He glanced over his shoulder. "Sleeping with the light on may help. You'd be able to see that you're just here. Surrounded by your own things, with possessions you love and people you care for. Oh," John said, "people that care for _you_, I meant to say. It, and don't try to figure out _how_, makes you realize that you're really safe, in the present, even when those 'illogical and irrational' thoughts affect your mind." He looked ahead again, heading back through to the kitchen.

"... Goodnight, John," floated Sherlock's voice down the hall.

"Goodnight, Sherlock. Good dreams," he said absently, heading back to bed.

* * *

**Couldn't picture John saying 'Sweet dreams' to Sherlock. So, 'good dreams'. I know it sounds a bit odd. xD**

**So, making Sherlock scared is difficult. And he's only _just_ in this chapter, as exemplified through the nightmare. But the thing I like about this chapter: Sherlock, absently, without thinking, feeling able to talk to John about the dream _and_ the idea that John's helping Sherlock with the whole 'sleep with the light on' idea. I think it's nice.**

**Set sometime between the end of _Hounds_ and the last month in _Reichenbach_.**

**Anyway, yes, I have writer's block. I'm not updating anything else at the moment. Sorry about that, but I hope to get inspiration soon enough again.**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Flustered_! Because I adored him in _Scandal_ when he got tongue-tied. Your reviews are lovely! Thank you!  
EDIT: _Sherlock's Fallible_ will be the next chapter instead. Because I found it annoying to try and make Sherlock flustered without including Irene, and I don't like Irene so much. xD**


	36. Sherlock's Fallible

**For those who didn't catch it in the last chapter, I changed this chapter to _Sherlock's Fallible_. Sorry for those who wanted _Sherlock's Flustered_!**

* * *

John clutched the styrofoam cup between his fingers too tightly. It squeaked with the pressure. John made a conscious effort to loosen his grip.

Lestrade leaned back in his chair, the squeaking drawing John out of his reverie. Lestrade looked like John felt: wholly shocked.

"He'll bounce back soon enough," Lestrade muttered. "He doesn't... This sort of thing doesn't register on an emotional level for him, so..."

John nodded slightly, raising the cup to his lips. The coffee was hot, but bitter, almost burnt-tasting. He lowered it again. "Has this happened before...?"

"Twice, over the years I've known him."

"Oh. Well." John swallowed. "He's... he's human."

"It's hard to remember that sometimes, isn't it?"

"Yep..." John sat the cup down, pressing his fingers against his eyes. So, he'd seen death before. But he'd never seen Sherlock _fail_. And it was almost as unsettling as the loss of life itself.

"He makes mistakes. That bothers him more than the actual death that those mistakes cause."

John looked up. "Do you believe that?" Lestrade looked at him, but John shook his head. "Do you honestly believe that he doesn't get affected? He might act like he's... detached and uncaring, but... I don't know." He looked back at the styrofoam cup. "He probably just..."

The door swung open as Sherlock stepped in. John and Lestrade both looked up.

"You okay?" John voiced, clearing his throat. He took another drink of the coffee, wincing at the taste.

"Am I okay? Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock replied, but the sour look didn't quite meet his eyes. There was something there in those eyes, but it was unreadable, unreachable, and John didn't think he'd ever understand that meaning.

"We'll... we'll probably have you later on in the week. This case doesn't seem to want to have an end..." Lestrade muttered, rubbing his eyes.

"Right," Sherlock replied crisply. He paused in the doorway, blinking at Lestrade and then John and maybe the silence, looking just the slightest bit lost. Then, he turned and walked back out, and John was quick to follow.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't talk out loud, John."

"No, Sherlock, listen-"

"There is no point to talk about it."

"Sherlock-"

"No."

"_Listen_ to me," John said. "I'm just saying that if anything, I mean, if you-"

"John," Sherlock said louder, cutting him off.

John stopped, looking at him. "You know, it doesn't matter if you're wrong. Once in awhile." Congratulations, John, that makes you sound heartless. "I just mean..."

"_I _shouldn't be wrong," Sherlock replied shortly. "_I _shouldn't be."

"You're allowed to be," John replied automatically. Sherlock glanced back at him. "I mean," John added quickly, catching up with the detective. "it's not good to be wrong on... erm, this type of thing, but..."

"Oh, do shut up, John," Sherlock replied.

John melted into silence, although, and he could have imagined it, but he thought Sherlock's eyes were infinitely more brighter and his tone was more cheerful than it had been before.

* * *

**Set after the second explosion in ****_The Great Game_****. I actually picture Sherlock being more upset, because, you know, he messed up. But, anyhoo.**

**Next chapter, ****_Sherlock's Unwell_****! Because I ****_finally_**** decided to write a sick!oneshot for this series! [****_Sherlock's Queasy _****wasn't really a sick!fic, was it?] You're all so excited, eh? XD**

**Thanks for your support!**


	37. Sherlock's Unwell

Head pounding.

Hell, that wasn't good. That wasn't good at _all_, since he didn't get headaches after he'd just woken up. He did not _wake up_ with headaches.

He cracked his eyes open, blinking against the light of the room.

Too bright.

The curtains were drawn but the time was later in the day. Probably eleven or noon, if he had to say. Nonetheless, it was still oddly grating on his eyes.

He closed his eyes again, swallowing reflexively.

Throat hurt.

... Was he... was he _sick_?

He didn't just _get sick_. Not him. Not now. No. He wasn't sick. He just... needed a bit more sleep.

A tickle in his throat.

Ignoring. Ignoring. Ig-

He coughed slightly into his pillow, flinching.

"Sherlock, your phone keeps going off-" John pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door. It hit the far wall with a loud (to Sherlock's ears) crack.

He couldn't stop himself from flinching. He wrenched the blankets over his head, but not before he noticed John's look of concern.

"Sherlock? You okay?" There were footsteps; John crossing the short space to the bed.

Sherlock tightened his grip on the blankets. "Perfectly fine," he gasped, trying to clear the ringing in his ears.

"You flinched when the door hit the wall and now you're hiding from me."

"Don't be ridiculous; I'm not hiding."

Sherlock felt the blankets pull and he was suddenly subjected the light of the room again. He gave John a hateful half-glare before placing his arm over his eyes.

"Sensitivity to light and sound? Are you running a fever?"

"'m fine," he replied.

Pressure on his forehead, knuckles, the back of John's hand.

Sherlock peered over his arm distastefully. "What are you doing?"

"You're a bit warm... Probably from all your late nights and not eating on this latest bloody case," John muttered. "You'll take some paracetamol, yeah?"

The creaking of a door; the door that connected Sherlock's room and the bathroom. John was already going to get the medicine.

Sherlock sighed quietly, rolling over to face the wall. He grabbed the blankets and pulled them up to his chin, nuzzling his face into the space between the duvet and his pillow. He didn't want medicine. He didn't want to sleep, either, but the bed was warm and inviting and the darkness was so peaceful...

"Sherlock. Hey, don't go to sleep yet; take this first!" John's voice was annoyed. Sherlock barely heard the ill-disguised concern through his head-pounding state. He just... yes, maybe sleep would be fine in this instance. Just this once.

Movement. Blankets pulled back again. John shaking his shoulder.

Sherlock barely bit back the resulting groan that threatened to elicit his pain. "What do you want, John?" he said angrily instead, swallowing again. His throat hurt. His stomach was starting to feel funny, too, and John pulling the blankets away was resulting in cold tremors and gooseflesh.

"Take the paracetamol, Sherlock. _Then_, go back to sleep."

Huffing, which trailed off into a weak cough, he sat up and swiped the medication from John. "Much obliged," he said sarcastically, placing the medicine on his tongue and swallowing it back. He then returned to his burrowed state, leaving John still standing at his bedside with the unused glass of water.

"Bloody take water with your pills, Sherlock...!" John complained, after a moment of what was probably the doctor still catching up. There was a light _tap_ of something... the glass on the nightstand? Things were becoming hazy... He couldn't think properly...

He hated it, absolutely hated it. Being ill. Waste of time. Useless immune system. Irrational cold symptoms. General disgust of feeling sick...

"Get some sleep," Sherlock thought he heard John saying. "I'll check back on you later and make sure that the fever's going..."

Sherlock (consciously or not, he wasn't sure) stopped listening.

* * *

**And, now, I want to write another multi!chapter sick!fic in Sherlock's POV. And I probably will. And I have another thing that I'll publish later, which will be a three!shot. And I still haven't forgotten about my stories. I'm just not in the mood to work on those.**

**Hopefully you still like sniffling Sherlock. xD Next chapter will be ****_Sherlock's Uncooperative_****. [And a bit ****_underweight_****.] Yeah. He's going to the clinic. No, it's not really tied in with this chapter. Thanks for reading and your reviews are, as ever, much appreciated!**


	38. Sherlock's Uncooperative

"John..."

"Shut up, Sherlock. Please."

"This is _stupid_," he spat. His eyes snapped up, darting around the waiting room. There were two people nestled in the seats by the window- one had a fever and the other was well, most likely mother and daughter, although the mother had conceived the child at an early age. There was single person with his eyes locked on the television; he seemed perfect normally and completely as ease, so Sherlock chalked him off as waiting on someone.

"You've made your opinions clear. Loudly. Several times." John peered over the top of the magazine he was reading, fixing Sherlock with a hard glance.

Sherlock scoffed and looked away from John again, standing fluidly.

"Where are you going?" John slapped the magazine down on the table and stood as well. He grabbed Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock snapped his attention back to John, all too prepared to tell John off; he had brought him to the doctor's office, anyway! He had been the one who had set this all up, made him come with him for a 'check-up', so John deserved to be told off-

"Sherlock?"

He looked towards the nurse standing in the doorway that had just called his name, reflexively.

"Ah, good," John said.

There was suddenly the pressure of a hand against his back and Sherlock was being forced forwards by his infuriating flatmate.

"John!"

"Come on, Sherlock, cooperate and it'll go much faster."

Sherlock stepped out of John's reach, shooting him a distasteful look. He drew his coat closer and stepped forward, brushing past the nurse and into the hallway of rooms. This was ridiculous. He hadn't been to a doctor's office in... _years_. Much less for something as inane as a 'check-up'.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson."

"Oh, hey, Julie. Everything going fine today?"

"Yeah. It's good. We're slow today, so that's nice."

"Which means that less people are sick _and_ that we get a break," John joked.

Sherlock scoffed. He was... generally disgusted with John's futile attempts to flirt. They were tasteless and mind numbing.

"Okay, we need to get your height and weight, Mr. Holmes."

"Even six and exactly one-hundred-fifty-two pounds."

They both looked at him. Both looked surprised. John shouldn't have been surprised.

"You weigh a hundred-fifty-two?" John asked, frowning.

"Yes," he replied in annoyance. "I just said that, didn't I?"

"You're underweight."

"Not technically," he replied. He looked back at the nurse. "Can we move this along?"

"Mr. Holmes, I can't just take your word for it. I need an exact-"

"That _is_ exact-"

"Sherlock, get on the damn scale," John retorted.

Sherlock sighed heavily, drawing his coat ever closer as he stepped onto the scale. "This is ridiculous, John."

"You keep saying that."

Sherlock watched as the nurse balanced the scale. One-hundred-fifty-one and a half. Oh, he'd lost half a pound. He almost smirked; Mycroft would be jealous.

"Now, stand over here, if you would, Mr. Holmes."

He placed his hands in his coat pockets, standing where the nurse pointed out. Six feet. He wouldn't be wrong about that one.

"As Doctor Watson said, you're-"

"I'm not underweight," he interrupted. "Next?"

"W-Well, we're going to need a urine sample-"

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"_No_," he repeated. "Now, are we going to become an inhabitant of a certain room or shall I just pick one?" He reached towards the handle of a closed door absently.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulling him away from the door. "Jules, what room are we in?"

"Uhm... Three."

"Right. Give me a minute." John all but dragged Sherlock (Sherlock let him, mind) to room Number Three, closing the door with a controlled calm. Sherlock flopped himself into the one chair in the room before John rounded on him. "What the _hell_ are you doing this for?"

"Doing what, you brought me here."

"Can't you just cooperate _once_? Just once?"

"I cooperate all the time."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Last week when you wanted my help at the grocery."

"You complained the whole time and knocked over a display!"

"I still went with you."

"Jeez," John muttered, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "Just... cooperate. I'll let you have a free pass for some experiment that you want to do or something."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looking away from John. The room was small and clean and smelling strongly of the general disinfectant of doctor's offices and hospitals. It was terrible. It made him want to sneeze.

John opened the door to the room, waving to someone, probably the nurse.

Sherlock only huffed and crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair as John looked back at him.

* * *

**I reasoned that Ben might weigh around 160-170... so, I had make it a little less for Mr. I-Never-Want-to-Eat here. He's uncooperative and stubborn and kind of adorable here... ****_I_**** think.**

_**Sherlock's Uncoordinated**_** for Chapter Thirty-Nine. We're going back to aSiB for this one!**

**Thanks for your reviews, appreciation, support, praise, etc, etc. It's very much appreciated!**

**In addition, as I said I was going to write that spin-off multi!chapter for _Sherlock's Unwell_, I did, and two chapters are posted now. _The Downed Detective_ is the name, for those who showed interest.**


	39. Sherlock's Uncoordinated

The room was spinning.

His ears were ringing.

His mind was disconnected from his body... What?

"Come on, Sherlock- _jeez_."

Someone was talking. Talking to him. Who...?

"Sherlock, pick up your feet!"

Oh, John. It had to be John... It had only been John, and The Woman...

The Woman. Oh. The phone. Where...?

"Sher- Hey! You are not helping!"

Okay. Focus, Sherlock. The smell of baking. Slight odour of chemicals. Had to be their flat. Had to be 221B. _Had_ to be. But, they had been at The Woman's home... When...?

Forget it. You're home now. Ugh, why is thinking so _difficult_. He just felt like sleeping. He didn't like sleeping. But he wanted to sleep. Why...?

_Focus_.

"... John...?"

"Finally," John muttered. Sherlock was becoming slowly aware of arms around him, holding him up, probably, because he was so tired, so confused, so-

He stumbled into something, and it seemed to be... the banister...?

So uncoordinated, it seemed.

John was trying to help him up the stairs. Right. Made sense now.

Except it really didn't.

The arms around him repositioned themselves. "Come on, Sherlock. We're almost to the top and _then_ you can sleep. Jeez, what did she give you..."

Oh, right. Drug. He'd been drugged. The Woman had drugged him... He remembered that.

He stumbled on one of the steps. He had the momentary feeling of tripping, of waiting for the floor to rush up and meet his nose, before John must have caught him.

"_Pick_ up your _feet_," John hissed.

"Right..." he responded thickly, attempting to make the effort to do just that. The fact that his body was feeling entirely disconnected did nothing to help with the effort. By the time that they hit the top of the stairs, the hallway outside their sitting room, he was thoroughly exhausted and John was muttering curses under his breath.

"Come on, come on, to bed..."

"Right," he mumbled again. "... Fine... 'm fine..." He tried to step out of John's reach, tried to take a step towards the general direction of his bedroom. Bad move- the world tilted at the oddest angle and his legs felt like... nothing. Nothing except air.

It was only by a simple miracle that he stumbled sideways, crashing into the table. The chairs went scattering and various experiments on the kitchen table tumbled off and crashed onto the floor from the momentum. He barely managed to catch the edge of the table to prevent from falling altogether.

"Sherlock! Stop! Just hang on!"

John was irritated. He was nervous and worried and irritated. Sherlock could tell. He also thought that maybe he might have a bruise tomorrow from colliding with that table.

He meant to say something, but it ended up being a mumble. He didn't know what he was supposed to be saying, so the mumble was accompanied with a flash of irritation meant for himself. How irritating. How annoying.

"Okay, look, put your arm around me-" Sherlock tried to stumble away. "_No_, put your arm around me! Face it; you need my help!"

Sherlock grumbled incoherently, but managed to guide his arm clumsily to John's shoulders. The man was short...! He hadn't correctly assessed how short he was before this, but he had never had reason to put his arm around the doctor's shoulders, either...

"Okay, one foot in front of the other..."

Sherlock sighed heavily, leaning, unconsciously, against his much too tolerant flatmate.

* * *

**Very short, but to the point.**

**Notes of interest: Starting at the end of this month, I will officially be working. :D So, even as I usually write late at night or early in the morning, the new job may interfere with my writing.**

**Secondly, as I think this story probably contains the most amount of my followers, I'd like to say/warn that I will be changing my pen name. **

**Anyway, I'm happy with any and all reviews! Next chapter, _Sherlock's Musical_. :D Thank you!**


	40. Sherlock's Musical

John rest his head on his hand, blinking slowly.

It was late.

It was warm.

He was exhausted.

He couldn't sleep.

By some device or design, his body wasn't having anything to do with the idea of sleep. He'd been awake for almost forty-eight hours.

It wasn't like he wasn't tired.

Because he was. He was exhausted. He hadn't even followed through with his plans to head to Tesco's because he was so exhausted. He'd flopped down in his chair in front of the telly and hadn't moved.

It was three o' clock. In the morning.

It was silent.

The fire was burning.

He yawned widely, closing his eyes.

Insomnia was terrible.

"John?"

John swallowed hard, forcing down the groan that threatened to elicit his exhaustion. He reopened his eyes and flickered his gaze towards the t-shirt, pyjama pants clad detective standing in the doorway of the hall.

"Sorry," John said automatically, although without any real sorrow, "did I disturb you?" Another automatic; he hadn't done anything _to_ disturb him.

Sherlock shook his head, a slight motion from side-to-side that had his mussed curls bouncing. He'd been asleep, even John could tell. His hair was unkept, moreso than usual. His eyes were as keen as ever, but lacking the distinct alertness that came with being awake.

Sherlock yawned widely, ruffling his hair as he shuffled through the kitchen and into the sitting room. "You still can't sleep."

It wasn't a question, but John responded, anyway. "No."

"Hm." Sherlock shuffled to the window, pulling the curtain back to peer down at the street. "How long's it been... Forty-five, forty-six hours? That's unnatural for you, John."

"I am quite aware," John replied tartly, once again resting his head on his hand.

"Tried all the conventional means?"

"Conventional means? If you mean the medical 'solutions'," here he made air-quotes with his fingers, "then, yes, I've tried those." He sighed heavily, pressing the heel of his hands against his forehead.

"You need sleep."

"Do you think?" he snapped. He paused for a half second before resting his forehead against his hand, closing his eyes. "Sorry. I'm so tired..."

"Quite apparently."

There was the sound of movement, but John didn't bother to open his eyes. He had no interest in whatever Sherlock was doing this time.

At least, not until Sherlock spoke again, his voice much closer than before.

"Go lay down."

John raised his head, opened his eyes, looking directly into Sherlock's ice blue ones in front of him. He didn't even flinch at the proximity. He was too tired to properly respond.

"I don't want to."

"John, you need to sleep. You cannot sleep simply by sitting up; you need to be completely relaxed in order to fall into a state of unconsciousness."

John sighed again, pushing away from the chair. He'd humour Sherlock, if it would get the detective to somehow find his way back into bed and leave the flat in silence. He crossed the room and thumped the Union Jack pillow onto the couch, flopping lazily onto the sofa afterwards.

"Go back to bed, Sherlock. You need more sleep than I do," he said to the ceiling, his eyes assessing the sights above him.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied shortly. "I can function on only a few hours of sleep. You, as proven, cannot."

"Right," John replied, folding an arm over his eyes. He had a feeling that Sherlock was insulting him. Perhaps he was just stating a fact. John wasn't quite sure.

There was some movement in the sitting room, somewhere across the room, but John didn't move his arm. Paper crinkled. John was sorely tempted to oversee whatever it was Sherlock was doing, but ultimately decided against it.

There was suddenly the long, languid note of the violin bow being pulled across the strings before the note melted into a slow, melodious tune. John would have complained... but he couldn't bring himself to open his mouth.

The music didn't quicken in pace, just kept up at its slow, paced tone. It wasn't particularly cheerful, wasn't particularly depressing, but somewhere in the middle of both of those. Peaceful. Tranquil. Something like that.

John sighed quietly, shifting his position to get more comfortable. If he couldn't sleep, at least he could be comfortable.

Relaxed...

So tired...

Sherlock's music...

Sherlock's music drifted off into silence as John fell, finally, gratefully, into a deep, dark oblivion.

* * *

**This is definitely one of my new favourite chapters. _Plus_, it's technically canon, from the original stories. The part about Holmes putting Watson to sleep via violin-playing. I know someone else wrote a story just like this, so, hopefully this isn't exactly like. I am in no way trying to copy that story; I just love this idea and wish it to become canon in the BBC!verse as well.**

**Chapter Forty-One, _Sherlock's Manipulative_. Or some of other idea beginning with 'M'. You know. I've become so indecisive. xD Thanks!**


	41. Sherlock's Manipulative

"John?"

John muttered incoherently, pressing his face into the pillow.

"John?"

John sighed heavily, waving a hand briefly. He reached for the blankets, pulling them up over his head. "Leave me alone, Sherlock... Sleeping..."

"John," Sherlock repeated. "John, I need you to wake up."

"I am awake..." John murmured. "I am... awake," he finished lamely, over a yawn. Sherlock just bloody had to do this; wake him up in the middle of the night when he was already exhausted. And over what? Probably nothing at all.

"You need to get up." Some silence. "John, listen to me. Get up."

"I'm not bloody getting up, Sherlock. It's..." he relinquished his grip on the blanket, glancing automatically towards the digital on his nightstand, "it's four o' sodding clock. In the morning. Go to bed," he muttered, once again drawing the duvet over his head.

"John," Sherlock repeated. His voice was low, controlled. Something different than his usual excited John-you-need-to-wake-up-now voice. "John, please."

John opened his eyes again, staring at the fabric of his duvet. Sherlock said please- but usually it was sarcastic, demanding. This time was different. It was like he was honestly saying it and meaning it. Like he honestly meant it.

"John."

John wrenched the duvet away from his head, unable to ignore Sherlock's voice any longer. Sherlock was being too calm. It was... strange. It was unsettling. And now John was awake and he was determined to figure out why the hell Sherlock had woken him up in the first place.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I need you, John."

John frowned, squinting in the darkness towards the shape that was Sherlock. "What... What do you mean? Why?"

"I believe I'm unwell, John."

A surge of panic shot straight through his body, activating his adrenaline. Sherlock didn't even admit he was in pain when he was bruised and bloody and practically _dying_-

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John sat up, fumbling for the light on the nightstand. "Tell me exactly what's wrong." He caught the switch for the light and the artificial glow filled the room. John looked expectantly towards Sherlock, his eyes doing a quick once-over of the detective standing near his bed. He looked fine, but he didn't sound _normal_...

Sherlock leaned forward, placing his hands on John's shoulders. "John, I need your help."

John stared up at him, trying to assess the complex glint in those ever-metallic eyes. "Yes. Yes, okay. Tell me what you need," he said simply. He would do whatever for Sherlock; that much was stupidly obvious from day one. Sherlock had to have realized that from practically the second he met him. He could have probably deduced it from his actions, the flicker of his gaze or the nonexistent tremble of his hand.

But, then again, maybe Sherlock didn't know at all.

"Promise me."

They were practically nose-to-nose now. John didn't move away.

"I promise, Sherlock. What's this about?"

Sherlock looked a him for a moment, his eyes giving him that quick, examining glance. He straightened up, removing his hands.

"I need you to go to Tesco's to get milk."

Silence hung heavily after Sherlock's nonchalant statement.

"... _What_?"

"I need milk. We're out of milk."

"No, what was all of that 'I need you, John' thing about? Because- Because you want me to go out at four o' clock in the morning to buy _milk_?"

"It's imperative."

"I'm not going out to buy sodding milk! I thought something was _wrong_, Sherlock!"

"Well, obviously, there is. We're out of milk," Sherlock repeated.

"You sounded _upset_. I thought something was seriously _wrong_!"

"I rationalized that perhaps the best way to elicit a response from you was to seem as though something had gone wrong."

"You- you-" he spluttered, glaring indignantly at the detective standing in his room.

"John, do use your words."

"Sherlock, you-"

"_Milk_, John."

"Not a chance!"

"There really is no need to yell."

"I'm not yelling. _This _is yelling!" He grabbed his pillow, throwing it at the figure in his room before he gave it a second thought. "You! How _dare_ you! Taking advantage of... of _emotions_!" He grabbed another pillow, again throwing it at Sherlock. It bounced harmlessly off of his chest.

Sherlock gave him a supreme, annoyed look. "Really, John."

"_Really_? _Really_, Sherlock?" John grabbed the last pillow, throwing it at him. "Waking me up at four in the morning to buy _milk_?! _Really_?"

Sherlock caught the pillow this time, hugging it to his chest. "If you go buy milk, you can heat it up and it will help you fall back asleep. Problem solved."

"There wouldn't be a problem _to_ solve if _you hadn't woken me up!_" He started laughing before he had finished the statement, overcome with amusement at the entire predicament. He wasn't _really_ mad... If he was really mad, he wouldn't be throwing pillows, of all things. And... jeez, he was throwing pillows. At Sherlock.

He pressed a hand over his mouth to stifle his laughter as Sherlock gave him a rather indignant look over the pillow he was still holding.

And then Sherlock rolled his eyes and dropped the pillow, turning for the door. John caught the hint of a smile on that ever-stoic face. "Nevermind, John. You obviously need the sleep."

John only laughed, shaking his head.

Oh, jeez.

He really did need the sleep.

* * *

**I initially thought to have Sherlock being manipulative of Molly's emotions, but thought it would be more comical [and cute] to see him manipulate John's emotions. And, there you go. Sleepy John, laughing John, little ball of... jumpers... Yeah. **

_**Sherlock's Malicious**_** in the next chapter. Poor John. ****Thanks for reading thus far!**


	42. Sherlock's Malicious

"John."

It was unfair, really, how Sherlock invaded every waking moment of John's life. What was really even _more_ unfair was the fact that Sherlock invaded his dreams, too.

"John..."

John snuggled further into his blankets, wishing to chase away the remnants of a dream that he was probably better off without. A dream involving Sherlock saying his name, most likely wanting something, was a dream that he lived everyday. Couldn't he dream about something more... pleasant when he was asleep? Like actually having a girlfriend for more than a month. Like not having to worry about rent. Like not having to spend a snowy, blustery, winter day at a crime scene at the edge of the Thames.

"John."

Except he couldn't dream about those sort of happy things.

In fact, he wasn't dreaming at all. Sherlock was _actually_ talking to him. In the conscious world.

"Sherlock..." John groaned. It wasn't fair that John couldn't have happy dreams. It was even more unfair that Sherlock invaded his dreams. It was _even more unfair_ when Sherlock invaded his personal space and woke him up in the middle of the night.

"Finally," Sherlock's voice said irritably. "You take far too long to wake up."

"What do you want..." he muttered, refusing to open his eyes. Perhaps, if he kept his eyes closed, Sherlock would just go away. Of course, he reasoned, this was very unlikely. Possible, but improbable.

"I'm conducting an experiment," Sherlock said bluntly. There was a slight click and the room was illuminated beneath John's closed eyes.

To be fair, John should have expected that. Sherlock was always conducting some sort of experiment. However, the particular four words, combined with the fact that Sherlock had woken him up, was standing next to his bed, didn't sit well with John. "And why are you in my room?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

"I've just said, John: I'm conducting an experiment."

"Please tell me that it doesn't involve me." John paused, before adding. "I'm not going to buy milk or go to Barts, if you're about to ask."

"I wasn't going to ask."

"Don't order me to, either."

"I wasn't going to," Sherlock replied, his voice hitting a new level of irritation.

John opened his eyes, glaring towards him. "What kind of experiment are you conducting?"

Sherlock's hand was suddenly centimeters from John's face, and sitting on his palm was a rather large, rather hairy, and rather frightening spider.

Like any proper person who did not harness devotion towards earth's unpleasant creatures, John reacted accordingly.

He yelped and scrambled backwards, away from Sherlock's hand. He misjudged his distance and felt the mattress give a half-second before he toppled onto the floor with a loud and rather disconcertingly painful _thump_.

"_Sherlock_," he hissed, peering over the mattress and giving Sherlock the angriest look he could manage through the surprise that still coursed through his veins. He wasn't particularly _afraid_ of spiders, but, really, when one was placed directly in his face...

Sherlock actually had a smirk on his face, but he was looking at the spider.

"Where the _hell_ did you get that?" John hissed, getting to his feet. "And why the hell did you bring it to me?"

"Conducting an experiment, John, like I have said." Sherlock let the spider crawl from one hand to other. "Analyzing the reaction time of someone who has just been woken up to a perpetually frightening stimulus. In this case, you are the one who has been woken up and the perpetually frightening stimulus is the spider."

"Oh, yeah, _really_ great, Sherlock. Just- Just bloody amazing."

"To be quite honest, John, you have a wonderful reaction time."

John glared at him for a moment. He glanced from Sherlock's quietly amused face to the spider before he shivered. "Ugh. Never again, Sherlock."

"Perhaps," Sherlock mused.

Even more wary than usual and deciding to learn to sleep with one eye open, John edged past Sherlock and headed down the stairs.

He needed a cup of tea.

* * *

**Poor John. Sherlock is unintentionally mean; don't let it get to you.**

_**Sherlock's Dashing**_** [or _Dapper_] for the next chapter. Legit tuxedos? Mhmm. I think Lestrade might make an appearance. Perhaps. ;D Thanks!**


	43. Sherlock's Dashing

"And _she's_ actually quite of a fan of you two," Mycroft said, pointing with his umbrella at a particularly stunning redhead in a sleek black dress crossing the dance floor. "Ever since you mentioned my name in one of your blog posts-" here Mycroft looked at John, giving him a look that was spectacularly reminiscent of his brother- "she was asking me about you two. She's a bit shy, however."

"Oh, everyone's a fan of Sherlock."

"Actually, John, she's quite smitten on you. She likes authors." Mycroft gave him another glance, one that nearly sent the tips of John's ears burning.

"Erm, well, unluckily for me, I'm just a blogger."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, we need to speak to you for a moment-"

"Right, yes, of course. John, do give my brother my regards. It seems that he's slipped off."

"Yes, I noticed," John replied, looking about the room. "Enjoy yourself."

"You too, John."

John was left sitting at the table he'd claimed, watching the various people mill about the room. Laughing, drinking, dancing.

He sighed heavily, adjusting his tie. He and Sherlock had gotten invited by Mycroft to this high-society fancy dress party. He hadn't had anything better to do and Sherlock had been bemoaning about the lack of anything to keep his mind busy. Somehow, they ended up attending the party without much fuss, although Sherlock did complain about having to dress 'properly', which really mean buttoning up a shirt correctly and putting on a tie.

Not that John liked wearing a tie, either, but...

He sighed, picking up his glass of something that was frightening bright and most devastatingly alcohol and took a hesitant sip. It was pleasantly fruity, but very, very strong.

He swallowed and made a face before raising it to his lips again.

"So, are you usually dressed up like a million dollar trooper or are you just trying _really_ hard to look like Gary Cooper?"

John nearly choked on his unidentified drink, looking up at the redhead that Mycroft had been telling him about.

She was stunning. She was literally stunning. How had he not noticed that from across the room?

He grinned sheepishly, setting his glass down. "Well, um..."

"Is it really tasteless for me to say that you look 'super duper'?" she asked, a certain amount of shyness taking her voice now.

John smiled reassuringly. "No, not at all. Erm... Join me, if you'd like," he said, gesturing to Sherlock's empty chair. "They say if you're blue, you should go to where fashion sits..." he added hesitantly.

If this wasn't a weird chat-up line opening, he didn't know what was.

Stranger things could happen.

"Janet." She smiled as she introduced herself, almost in an embarrassed way, sinking into the empty seat. "And you know how to put on the ritz. Do you _really_ know that song or did you just catch it when it was on?"

"Oh, no, I've heard it before." He paused. "Probably on a film. I'm John, by the way."

"I know. We all know." She smiled. "Anyway, at least you're associated with some good, older music. That's nice. Author and good taste in music."

"The older music is the best," he said appreciatively. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Oh, yeah, that'd be great."

"Hang on a sec." He stood, casting his gaze about for one of the waiters. He found one quickly enough and strode across the room, weaving in between people getting in his way.

Suddenly, a white-gloved hand shot out from the crowd and grabbed his arm, hauling him back.

"John."

John barely spared Sherlock a dismissive glance. "Leave me alone."

"John, we're leaving."

"No, Sherlock, we're staying." He pulled out of Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock grabbed the arm of his suit as he turned away again. "_John_."

John frowned, looking back at him. "What? What's gotten into you?"

When John mused that they (Sherlock, at least) hadn't gotten that dressed up, perhaps it wasn't entirely true. Sherlock was in a two-piece suit that was brand new, and possibly the darkest shade of black that John had ever seen. The suit matched Sherlock's hair, which was its usual curly self, but not unkept as it might have been. The copious amounts of black made Sherlock's pale complexion stand out, along with those eyes that seemed to have taken on a more blueish hue today. Perhaps his eyes stood out more, or appeared more blue, because of the cerulean blue tie that stood out against the white of his button-down shirt. There was the cerulean matching pocket square in the front pocket of the suit as well. The usually aloof consulting detective looked entirely proper with the addition of the white silk gloves and the polished black shoes.

John paused for a short moment to wonder how the _hell_ Sherlock had agreed to this without throwing a tantrum.

"It's an acceptable time to leave, correct? We've been here over thirty minutes," Sherlock said fluidly, although there was something close to anxiety creeping into his eyes.

John, forgetting that he was supposed to be getting a drink for the pretty girl he had just met, looked at him closer. "Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"... Headache," Sherlock said shortly. His gloved fingers were still pinching the fabric of John's suit tightly, unconsciously.

John was instantly wary. "You've got a headache? Are you ill?" He raised a hand reflexively to feel Sherlock's forehead, but the detective leaned away quickly.

"No," Sherlock said stubbornly. "Just..." He swallowed, casting a glance about the room. "There's so much..." For a moment, he sounded completely lost.

"Okay... Okay, we can leave," John said carefully, watching Sherlock's eyes. His best guess was that Sherlock was probably experiencing sensory overload. Considering that this wasn't an environment that Sherlock was used to, nor one that he probably wanted to be in, it was possible. "Let's find our coats. I'll just apologize to Mycroft later..."

He placed his hand against Sherlock's arm, carefully guiding him from the room. A testament to Sherlock's mental state was the fact that he didn't flinch away.

John edged around the main groups of people, eager to get Sherlock out of this stuffy place.

Even if it meant leaving that pretty girl sitting by herself.

Mycroft would apologize for him.

Living with Sherlock didn't leave much room for dating, after all.

* * *

**Sherlock's Distraught, along with Dapper/Dashing. John's caring and he ALMOST found a new girlfriend... but not quite. For the person who said that I might included Mycroft with his umbrella, he's there for a moment, and the cheesy pick up lines between Janet and John are product of the song ****_Puttin' on the Ritz_****, which I had an annoyingly difficult time trying to write in! xD**

_**Sherlock's Dark**_** for the next chapter, so the mood will be changing drastically. **

**Thanks!**


	44. Sherlock's Dark

John stared at the far wall, ignoring the gaze that he knew was on him.

"John."

John didn't respond, only frowned slightly. He knew what the voice was about to ask, and John honestly didn't have an answer. He didn't want to hear the question, let alone form an answer.

"John," Mycroft repeated.

"What?" John said irritably, finally looking up at Sherlock's brother.

"Do I really have to ask?"

"I don't know," John said stubbornly. "I have no idea. _No_ idea..."

_John walked into the flat, trying to juggle five shopping bags that mostly contained things that Sherlock needed for experiments. Would Sherlock help him? Of course not._

_"Thanks for the help," he called up the stairs, unable to bite back the acid leaking through his words. "Send me shopping for all of this ridiculous stuff and then don't offer to help."_

_He huffed, dropping all five bags on the floor once he stepped into the sitting room. It took him a minute to realize that the air of 221B was... different. Very electric, almost, very dangerous. John shook himself and hung his coat on the back of the door, turning towards the sofa._

_Sherlock was slumped on the couch, his eyes staring towards the kitchen. His eyebrows were knitted together, lines of concentration standing out on Sherlock's pale skin. He was sitting stock-still, and looking very dangerous._

_John resisted the urge to shiver before voicing his flatmate's name._

_"Sherlock? What are you doing?"_

_Sherlock didn't respond, didn't so much as blink at the silence._

_"Sherlock? Talk to me."_

_John crossed the room, coming to a hesitant stop next to Sherlock. When Sherlock still didn't look up, John tapped his flatmate on the shoulder. Sherlock's attention snapped to him so fast that John nearly flinched. There was a look in those ever-keen eyes that would have made any other person _back off_._

_"Humanity is degrading. Society is deteriorating. Leave me alone, John, I have no time for your mindless trivia."_

_"What the_ hell_ is this about?" _

_"Go away, John," Sherlock replied coldly._

_"Sherlock, what did you-"_

_"Go away, John. I don't have time for you."_

_"What_ happened?"_ John breathed, not bothering to listen to Sherlock's statements, because they were not true. Couldn't be true. It was... was whatever had happened talking. And something had had to have happened, because Sherlock never acted like this._

_"For once, can't you just stay out of my business, _Doctor_?" Sherlock said, his voice chillingly cold._

_"No," John replied instantly. "You're my business; your business_ is_ my business."_

_"Don't be stupid," Sherlock hissed, swinging his legs off the couch. "You have nothing to do with me." He brushed past John roughly._

_It took John a long moment to realize that the flat was silent and, when he looked up, he realized that Sherlock was gone._

"He just stormed out of your flat for no reason?" Mycroft pressed. "My brother has always been a dramatist, but when it comes to you, John, he tends to be slightly calmer than usual."

"He was just..." John threw up his hands slightly. "He just seemed _so_... dark or something. So angry. And no, he didn't say anything, nothing of importance, anyway, so I don't know what's ailing him." He looked back at Mycroft. "I'm assuming you've got someone tailing him?"

"I hardly planned on letting my anger-ridden brother wander around Central London by himself. I can't fathom the sort of trouble he might get into if there wasn't someone watching him."

John sank a little lower in his seat. "I have no idea what's wrong with him..."

"I've been asking myself the same question for years."

John gave Mycroft a cold stare. Mycroft only turned for the door.

"I will keep posted on this, John. I expect nothing like this to happen again."

John didn't bother to say that he had had nothing to do with Sherlock's sudden mood swing. To be truthful, maybe he had done something. He really, truly had no idea.

But it made him feel rather sick to think that maybe Sherlock's bad mood was because of him.

* * *

**Erm... Dark!Sherlock is a bit difficult to write. xD**

**I've had a thought; I thought that, if anyone was interested, I'd do an audio reading of my fanfiction and put it on the YT. If you might be, I've set up a new poll on my profile for the point of this. Choose your favourite story on the poll, if you're interested. :)**

_**Sherlock's Distressed**_** will be Chapter Forty-Four. Distressed because of something that happens to John. Thanks for reading!**


	45. Sherlock's Distressed

_"John? John, where_ are _you!"_

"I don't know, Sherlock..." John muttered, coughing slightly. The motion sent a spark of pain straight down his body and he wasn't entirely efficient at biting back the groan of pain that followed.

_"Observe!"_

John sighed, pressing the phone closer to his ear. He was so tired...

_"John!"_

"I don't know..." he breathed. He shifted his mobile to the opposite ear, using his free hand to press against the wound in his lower stomach. His jumper was stained red. There's so much pain...

_"Fire your gun!"_

For a second, John thought that he had heard wrong. From the blood loss, it's possible that he's hearing things incorrectly. But, John realized, Sherlock wouldn't be too far away. After all, they had been on the case together, only gotten separated at last. Sherlock would hear the gunshot and-

John fumbled with his gun, ended up dropping his phone onto his blood-stained lap. He plugged one of his ears and raised his gun, firing it into the sky. The gunshot was deafening.

He wanted to curl up and sleep.

He should have picked up his phone again, but he couldn't bring himself to. Instead, he just dropped his hands into his lap and leaned back against the foundation behind him, applying pressure to the wound.

"John? John!" Sherlock's voice. John reasoned that he ought to respond, but he didn't open his mouth. "John!"

"Shut up, Sherlock..." John muttered, bringing his voice to the loudest he could manage. Which wasn't very loud, all things considered.

"John?" Sherlock suddenly peered around the corner of the statue. Oh. It was a statue. Where the hell were they...? John had forgotten...

Sherlock was suddenly there, crashing to his knees next to John and shoving John's hands out of the way. "John, stay awake." His voice was brisk and demanding and distant, but John heard the underlying worry.

"I'm not falling asleep," John murmured, even though he was. (Sherlock didn't need something else to worry about.)

Sherlock's hand was now pressed against John's abdomen as the detective shrugged his coat off. "Sit up. Sit up!" he repeated, as John had made no effort to move. John sighed quietly, moving a bit away from the statue he was leaning against. Sherlock draped his coat over John's shoulders. It was warm and heavy and it smelled like Sherlock...

John closed his eyes. He just needed five minutes of sleep...

"No- John-" The pressure on John's wound intensified as something similar to panic snuck into Sherlock's voice. John reopened his eyes, disgruntled.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. I'll be fine." He knew he hadn't lost enough blood for any serious complication- not yet- but he was just sleepy...

"Lestrade will be here soon. Stay awake. Look at me."

John struggled to focus on Sherlock's face. "Lestrade...?"

"I figured out where you were from the sound of the gunshot, obviously. Called Lestrade on the way, after you had stopped talking to me." Sherlock's voice sounded slightly annoyed at the latter statement.

"... Sorry..." John muttered, raising a hand to pull Sherlock's coat closer. He was probably going into shock. Oh well. He was best friends with Sherlock Holmes; their partnership couldn't be balanced unless he got hurt once in awhile.

And, if it meant taking a bullet for his friend in some strange, roundabout way, he was fine with the pain.

"John?"

The near-hysteria in Sherlock's voice was something that made John wonder if he had lost more blood than he thought. He had to be hearing things, because Sherlock didn't get worried, and he most certainly did not get hysterical.

"I'm right here, Sherlock..." John mumbled, forcing himself to meet Sherlock's gaze once again.

* * *

**To everyone who wondered if ****_Sherlock's Dark_**** will have a spin-off, I've got to say 'no'. Yes, the chapter was vague, yes, there's no plot, no, there's no answer to why he was upset because I didn't think of one. I think dark Sherlock is difficult to write, and I won't be continuing it in a spin-off. Sorry.**

**To everyone who is now wondering if this will have a spin-off, the answer is also 'no'. Go ahead, be mad at me. However, this will be picked up- to an extent- in the next chapter, ****_Sherlock's Relieved_****.**

**Thanks!**


	46. Sherlock's Relieved

John blinked his eyes open, resisting the urge to close them immediately. The room around him was white, annoying so, and there was a steady, annoying beeping breaking the otherwise silence.

It only took a few seconds for John to realize that he was in the hospital.

He blinked hard, trying to sit up.

"Lay still," came a deep voice from somewhere above him.

John flickered his gaze to the person standing next to his bed, resting his gaze on the tall, pale form of Sherlock Holmes.

"... I find it unfair that I'm the one in the hospital bed, when I look at all the trouble you get into," John muttered, settling back against the pillows.

The slightest smile passed Sherlock's lips. "Well, you know how these things work out."

"Do I?" John muttered, fumbling to prop his pillow up a bit more. "Oh, this is... annoying," he muttered.

"Shouldn't have gotten shot."

"Yeah," John muttered, settling against his pillow again. "I'll try to remember that the next time someone points a gun at me."

Sherlock seemed to laugh, sinking heavily into the chair next to the bed. It was only then that John realized just how pale Sherlock looked, how dark circles were prominent under his eyes.

"How long have I been here?" John asked suddenly. "How long have you been here?"

"I've been here as long as you've been here. For the better part of twenty four hours, if you must know."

John blinked.

"I've been asleep for a day?"

"You lost a lot of blood." Sherlock seemed to be awfully interested in a loose thread on his coat. "You stopped breathing at one point." He looked up. In those eyes that were usually only excited when there was a murder, usually only happy when there was a body in front of him, there was something that John hadn't seen before.

Pain.

"And then the doctors managed to keep you alive, and get everything fixed, and here we are," Sherlock finished abruptly, looking away and pulling his mobile out. His fingers flitted over the keys quickly, and he didn't look back up. "You had a rather gaping wound in your stomach, I might add, which they've stitched up. They believe that you might have a concussion. Probably hit your head when you fell." Sherlock paused in tapping at his phone's keyboard, looking up. "It's..." He cleared his throat. "It's good to see you, uhm, awake. Finally. It's... relieving and... nice."

John blinked again. There was a lot that he wasn't yet comprehending, although he was fairly sure the thing that topped the list was the latter statement.

"Err... yeah," John muttered, sinking lower against his pillows. "It was... It was good of you to, you know, find me and... call Lestrade and everything."

"I had to," Sherlock said automatically. "You're my blogger."

John watched him for a moment before Sherlock went back to tapping on his phone. Then, he smiled.

It might take a bullet or so to prove it, but Sherlock was, indeed, only human.

(And, no matter what Sherlock said, he really did care.)

* * *

**The entire time I was working on this, I kept thinking of the scene in _Sherlock Holmes_, after Watson had gotten burns from the explosion, and when Holmes is reunited with him, they have that really little awkward appreciation scene that is adorable. xD**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Reclusive_. Why is he hiding away in his room? By the way, it'll be completely unrelated to the past chapter and this chapter. Your thoughts are, as usual, wonderful. :) Thank you!**


	47. Sherlock's Reclusive

"Sherlock, your phone keeps going off," John said, rapping his knuckles against Sherlock's bedroom door before pushing it open.

He paused in the doorway at what he saw: Sherlock was curled up in bed, his face buried into his pillow.

For a moment, John thought that Sherlock was asleep, until Sherlock's head turned away from the pillow and those maybe-sea-green, maybe-blue eyes met John's. The usual light that was usually in those eyes was gone.

"What's wrong?" John asked quickly, stepping into the room.

"John, please lower your voice; it's atrocious," Sherlock said, turning his head back to the pillow.

"Are you ill?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John... I don't get _ill_."

"What's wrong, then?" John stood at the edge of Sherlock's bed, staring at the lump that was Sherlock. There was something clearly wrong; why didn't Sherlock just admit it? John was a doctor, for goodness sakes. Any problem that Sherlock had, John probably had seen before. Why didn't he just _say_-

"... Headache..."

John paused, looking at him. "What?"

"Headache, I've got a headache," Sherlock replied tartly.

John stared at him. "A headache? A headache is what has kept you locked in your room all morning?" He laughed slightly. "What, did you finally break your brain?"

"I'm glad that you think it's so _funny_, John."

"It's amusing, really," John replied, shaking his head with a grin as he walked out.

Not five minutes later, he returned to the room, finding Sherlock in the same position.

"Sit up."

No response.

"Sherlock, sit up," John repeated. "I've brought paracetamol."

Sherlock seemed to sigh, pushing himself carefully into a half-sitting position. He took the medicine and a gulp of water, passing the mug back to John before collapsing back onto the pillows.

John sat the mug onto the nightstand. He then leaned forward and placed a warm rag over Sherlock's eyes.

"What..." Sherlock started, raising his hand to press at the warm cloth warily. "Oh..."

"It'll help you relax, make the headache go away. Leave it there until it gets cool again. I put a bowl of hot water on your nightstand so you can get it warm again if you need to. The water'll stay hot for about fifteen minutes, so if you need more hot water, let me know."

John headed for the door, only pausing in the doorway. "Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Next time, tell me if you're feeling ill. I would have turned the telly down if I knew."

"Right..." Sherlock muttered, his voice thick with annoyance, pain, and perhaps just the slightest hint of something edging towards relaxation. Hopefully, John thought, closing Sherlock's door, the detective could get some much needed rest.

* * *

**Poor little Lockie's locked in his room, trying to hide from real life that irritates his head even more so than usual.**

**Realized that these are getting very, very short. Will try to make up for it in upcoming chapters. I love this chapter, though. My tension headaches are making me want to write headaches over and over again. xP**

_**Sherlock's Relaxed**_** will be Chapter Forty-Eight. Thanks!**


	48. Sherlock's Relaxed

"Sherlock?" John murmured, raising his head. He blinked slowly, trying to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.

"Sorry," Sherlock said. His voice was behind John, and there was the shuffle of fabric.

"What time is it?" John muttered, sitting up. He'd been awake, reading, and partially waiting on Sherlock to come home. That had been around ten o' clock.

"About two. Go to bed."

John yawned widely, frowning as he pulled the book out from in between the cushions. "Did you solve the case?"

"Mhm. It was very satisfying. Double murder, in the end." There were footsteps as Sherlock crossed the room. John turned his head to watch him vanish back into his room.

"Did you solve it on your own, or was Lestrade there with you the whole time?" John asked, stretching.

"Oh, Lestrade was with me. He was nearly asleep." Sherlock almost sounded like he wanted to laugh. "It worked out."

John glanced back towards the kitchen as he heard footsteps again. "I'm glad to hear that, then," John said, watching Sherlock, now clad in an old t-shirt and pyjama pants, his dressing gown sash trailing behind him, as he stepped onto and over the coffee table.

Sherlock hummed in reply, flopping onto the couch.

"Are you going to go to bed?" John asked, propping his head up on his hand as he looked towards Sherlock.

"Not tired," Sherlock replied.

"Your voice says differently," John murmured tiredly. He knew he ought to go to bed as well, but he didn't want to. He hadn't seen much of Sherlock in the past twenty-four hours. Not that an absence of Sherlock was a bad thing- well, it was sort of a bad thing, actually. It was remarkably lonely with Sherlock in the flat.

"You can't read my voice," Sherlock replied, although there was a hint of amusement in his tone.

"I can," John replied stubbornly, his eyelids dipping slightly as he struggled to stay awake. "You sound... tranquil."

"Tranquility doesn't mean exhaustion."

"In your case, it does..."

Sherlock laughed slightly, just the ghost of a breath hinted with humour. "Choosing to observe for once?"

"I observe once in awhile..." John mumbled, once again forcing his eyes open.

"Just go to bed, John." Sherlock's tone wasn't unkind. John reasoned that the case must have gone very well. Either that, or Sherlock was just too tired to keep up his facade.

"I'll go to sleep when you go to sleep," John retaliated, sniffing and raising his head again.

"Mmm... You're ridiculous, John." Despite how Sherlock said he wasn't tired, John could hear the sleep slowly sneaking into Sherlock's voice.

"Maybe," John allowed, letting his eyes flutter closed again. He didn't reopen them. "Goodnight, Sherlock..."

The last thing he remembered before he fell asleep was a quiet snore coming from his pompous flatmate.

* * *

**It's short, but I love it. I love the relaxed Sherlock that is actually in the show- the Sherlock that parades around in his pyjamas, the Sherlock that plays the violin and the Sherlock that steps on the furniture- because it shows how relaxed he is around John. So, I try to write it, it doesn't work well, but I like it, anyway.**

**I just want to say thank you to all of my readers. You mean a lot to me, each and every one of you. I'm grateful to have such loyal fans. It probably doesn't- well, I'm thankful for you guys. You make my day with your reviews, your questions, your comments, your analyzations or your conversations with me. Thank you, really.**

_**Sherlock's X-Rayed**_** (I'm making it a word if it isn't. xD) is up next. Moving on to the 'x's. Challenging. xD**


	49. Sherlock's X-Rayed

"John, I don't want to do this," Sherlock muttered, leaning heavily against John's side.

John grunted as Sherlock grabbed ahold of his sleeve, nearly knocking him off balance. He looped his arm around Sherlock's middle and tried to take his weight. "Look, it's not a matter of whether or not you _will_, because you _are_."

"It's okay. It's not broken," Sherlock replied.

"Then why aren't you putting pressure on it!" John snapped, trying and failing to control his nerves that were raging at him. _Is Sherlock okay? Is he going to be fine? John, you're a doctor! Figure it out!_

"Just because it isn't broken doesn't mean it doesn't hurt," Sherlock retorted.

"Well, you know, if you would have _accepted the damn wheelchair_-"

"I don't want to pushed around in a wheelchair."

"Oh, but you'd rather cling to me like- like some sort of koala bear," John muttered.

"John," Sherlock muttered, wincing slightly, "you don't understand-"

"Pride, yes, your bloody... pride," John muttered. "But when you run into the street without looking where you're going, you might as well just pack it up." He removed his arm and took a careful step back. Sherlock teetered precariously for a few seconds as his balance, due to the lack of a John-crutch, faltered.

"John...!"

John gripped onto his shoulder before he could fall. "Well, we both can't go through the door at the same time! Give me your hand."

Sherlock huffed and took John's hand, holding onto it so tightly that John quickly began to lose feeling in his fingers.

"Small steps. I'm right behind you."

"I'm going to fall!"

"You're not going to fall," John said firmly.

"I feel like I'm going to fall."

"I'm not going to let you fall."

Sherlock Holmes was a man who handled dead bodies and death, crime and blood and guts and gore, guns and knives, mobsters and the homeless. He could pass any of that without blinking.

But put him a hospital and he was immediately out of his league. (And he also immediately became fussy as a two year old.)

"Okay, okay," John said, slipping into the room and falling back into step next to Sherlock. Sherlock immediately latched onto him, locking his arm around his shoulders, fingers knitting into John's jacket. "Ow! Watch your grip!" John complained, almost dragging Sherlock to the table in the room. "Sit."

Sherlock flopped into a sitting position, finally letting go of John.

"Now stay here and they'll be with you in a sec," John said, flexing his fingers and stretching his arm. Sherlock didn't look like it, but the scrawny, tall detective was awfully strong. He wouldn't be surprised if he had a bruise.

"Don't leave me here!"

John had turned around to walk out, but there was something stopping him- literally- and he looked back to find Sherlock gripping the back of his coat. "Sherlock, I can't stay with you."

"It's boring here!"

"Boring?" John replied humourlessly. "You're getting an x-ray for a possible broken ankle. It's not fun, any way you look at it."

"It's not broken. I want to go home."

"Well, you're getting an x-ray first."

"Then stay with me," Sherlock said stubbornly.

John sighed, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "Okay... Okay, just _until_ the doctor kicks me out. I can't be in the room when they actually take the x-ray." He sank into a sitting position next to Sherlock. "The doctor said he'd be here in a minute..."

Sherlock shrugged. He was peeling his sock off, trying to, no doubt, get at his swollen ankle.

"Leave it alone," John said grabbing Sherlock's hand and dragging it away. "Let the doctors deal with it."

"I was just taking my sock off."

"You don't need to take your sock off."

Sherlock gave an almighty, annoyed 'hmph' noise, resting his elbows on his knees. "This is dull, John."

"Don't run into traffic, Sherlock," John replied.

"The perp was getting away!"

"The perp got away, anyway, because you actually got knocked to the ground." John's tone was dry. He didn't know what had been more frightening at the time- the noise of screeching brakes or the _thump_ that was Sherlock hitting the pavement. Both had been equally heart-stopping.

"That was irritating. I could have still gotten him..."

John looked at him. "When you couldn't even walk into the x-ray room without complaining that you were going to fall? You weren't going to go running after a criminal."

"Well, then, you should have," Sherlock grumbled, resting his chin on his hand. "When can we leave, John?"

"_After_ the x-ray," John replied tolerantly. "Which they could do any bloody second..." he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, doctors. Doctors are slow," Sherlock replied absently.

John looked at him.

Sherlock grinned.

John snorted to cover his laughter before looking away again.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"When can we leave?"

John sighed.

* * *

**Filming for Series Three got pushed back, so I've heard. :( So, I retreat to writing cute fluffy stuff. And I love the mental picture I get with this chapter. **

**Up next, _Sherlock's Xanthic_.**

**Thanks for reading! Love to hear your thoughts!**


	50. Sherlock's Xanthic

"So, what do you think?"

"Hm?" John replied lazily, flipping through an old copy of _The Catcher in the Rye_.

"Think Lestrade'll figure out that it wasn't really a house-breaking?"

"I don't know. Was it?"

"Of course not, I've just said that."

"Right."

They were sprawled out lazily in the grass, the sun setting in the horizon on a particularly relaxing (note: boring) day. They'd ended up trekking halfway across the rolling countryside, for a reason that was John was still not wholly sure of, but he didn't mind because it didn't involve anything deadly and he had a book to occupy himself when they weren't hiking. Like now.

John had refused to keep up their pointless hike until he had had time to rest and, besides, the view was spectacular. He told Sherlock as much before plopping down in the tall grass and digging into his bag for his book.

After a bit of complaining (this isn't the time to read, John!) and even more pacing about, picking at grass and deducing how long since it had rained, or since it had been cut, or whether or not there was any sort of experiment that could be performed on it back home, Sherlock had flopped onto the grass.

"It's marvelous, isn't it?" Sherlock said, quietly, after a few moments of silence.

John glanced up, looking in the direction Sherlock was, and let his eyes settle on the sunset occurring in the distance.

"It is," he agreed, smiling slightly. It was nice to see Sherlock completely calmed down, relaxed enough to appreciate the small things in life. It rarely happened, yes, but it was entirely worth it to see the fascination fanning out on Sherlock's features.

The first time Sherlock had done this I-don't-care-about-it-but-it's-nice thing, it had been almost two months after they'd met. It was on the Great Game case and Sherlock had mentioned how the stars were beautiful.

It had shocked John then, made him think for a moment that Sherlock was making fun of him, but then he had realized that Sherlock was completely serious, and that had made him smile.

It was nice to have those moments.

"Dawn and dusk, the transitional hours..." Sherlock said softly, narrowing his eyes slightly. He looked almost as if he was contemplating the hidden mysteries behind those transitional hours. To his credit, however, he did not deduce the sunset, a clear sign that while his mind was working as quickly as it ever was, this was something he wasn't trying to figure out. Just appreciating.

And it was nice.

John looked away from the sunset again, letting his eyes fall absently on his flatmate. The diminishing rays of sun fell on Sherlock's pale form, basking him in a soft, golden glow. The coal-black curls, unkept from laying in the grass, were illuminated with the soft light, his features more prominent as the shadows inched further away from them.

Sherlock turned his head, his eyes suddenly meeting John's.

"What _are_ you looking at?" he said.

John blinked and frowned, leaning back on his elbows. "You know, I'm not quite sure what it is, to be completely honest."

Sherlock gave him a withering look before John felt the smile creep onto his own lips, seeing it slowly mirrored in the form of a smirk on Sherlock's face.

"You are ridiculous, John. Are you finished reading yet?"

"Of course not, you've been distracting me," John replied, returning his gaze to his book. "Can't read when you're running on about sunsets," he joked.

Sherlock huffed, although it almost sounded like a laugh for a moment, and John watched over the top of his book as Sherlock looked back to the sunset.

* * *

**Short, but sweet, and to the point. A tranquil look into their partnership.**

**Xanthic, by the way, means to have a yellow tint or hue. Given the circumstances, I found a sunset to work best with the idea. With the letter 'x', you know I have to be creative. Two references to Benedict Cumberbatch in this chapter, too, actually.**

_**Sherlock's Xenophobic**_** is the next chapter. Thanks for reading!**

**EDIT: _Sherlock's Xenial_ will be the next chapter, after all. I was thinking about and can't bring myself to so insulting to write _Xenophobic_ quite right.**


	51. Sherlock's Xenial

"Isn't it terrible?"

John propped his chin up on his hand, watching his flatmate chat with the neighbors all standing around him.

"It is. It's absolutely horrible. Are you sure you're okay? It must have been traumatising," Sherlock said. "Your pupils are dilated."

"Oh my, are you a doctor?"

John scoffed.

He'd been sitting on the stairsteps for the better of ten minutes, watching Sherlock putter around the house, assessing and deducing and _talking_, actually talking. He was undercover, meandering around and trying to gather information by actually being pleasant, and he had told John to sit down and not interrupt.

John didn't mind. He couldn't stand next to Sherlock when Sherlock was acting and manage to keep a straight face for long. It felt so _wrong_ to him, exploiting weakness of people involved with murder. Toying with their emotions...

Of course, Sherlock noticed nothing wrong with. "It helps to apprehend the killer, in the long run. Isn't that for the best?" Sherlock had asked, not even looking at John when he had mentioned it.

"Er, no. I have a friend who's a doctor, though," Sherlock said.

"Oh, that's wonderful. Doctors are... wonderful."

"I have picked up a few tips from him, though. Did you wish to talk about what you seen earlier today? I've heard that talking often helps, and I've been told that I'm a great listener."

John couldn't see Sherlock's face, but he knew it would be genuine, and John wondered how Sherlock could _lie_ so easily.

Wait. He already knew.

He could lie so easily because he was Sherlock Holmes, the man with no morals.

The man with no morals, but a man with a plan, and it wasn't five minutes later when Sherlock had the whole story and was currently hugging it out with the lady who had provided it.

"People love to talk," Sherlock muttered, straightening his coat as he joined John again. "They love trying to make people feel for them. It's amazing what people will say when they have someone looking at them with sympathy."

"And you look at them with sympathy?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock.

"Someone has to. I picture their unused, little brains and I have to wonder how they get by at all."

Sherlock fixed his scarf, looking down at John.

John resisted the terrible urge to laugh at Sherlock's insult and stood up.

They had just stepped outside when Sherlock spoke again.

"Don't act like you're not amused. You think it's funny that I got... _attacked_ by that woman."

John laughed out loud. "Yeah, well, that's what happens when you listen to people and be generally nice. You get _hugged_, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed. "_You_ never get hugs."

"Not true!" John retorted, looking at him. "I get hugged at work!"

"By two year olds?"

John blinked before turning his attention in front of him again.

"Do you want a hug, John?"

Sherlock's voice was a complete monotone, but it didn't stop John from snapping his attention back to his companion.

Sherlock meant his gaze briefly before that amused smirk graced his lips.

"You wouldn't give me a hug if I wanted one," John pointed out, unable to keep a straight face when Sherlock was smiling. "Besides, people would talk..."

"Oh, talk, talk, talk. How _boring_. Let's go catch a killer, John!"

"Sounds good to me."

* * *

**Hugs? Boring! Chasing down a killer? Now _that's_ more like it! [I want a Sherlockian hug, though, honestly.]**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Gallant_. Onto a new letter! [Finally! :P]**


	52. Sherlock's Gallant

"Where's 'olmes?!"

"I don't know!"

John's voice was panicked, genuinely panicked.

"You always know where 'olmes is at!" bellowed the man who was wielding a knife.

"I'm not his bloody babysitter," John retorted, only faltering with a gasp as the man pressed the blade against his neck. John's back was against the wall- quite literally- he had backed up against one of the beams in the barn and was unable to move.

"Call 'im!"

"I already did! He didn't-" Small beads of blood dotted along the edge of the knife, a stark contrast against John's skin.

"Tell me where to find 'im! Now!"

Sherlock crept along the rafters, staying absolutely silent. He was staring quietly down at John, watching, waiting. The opportune moment...

"Drop your weapon!"

The barn doors flung open, revealing Lestrade and two more of his (most irritating) officers.

John's eyes widened slightly.

Sherlock's breath left him in an irritated groan.

"Drop it!"

"Lestrade-" John gasped before their suspect grabbed him, looping one of his sweating arms around John's neck. "Sherlock-"

"Back! Git back!"

"Drop your weapon! Step away from John!"

"Sherlock-" John gasped again, scrabbling at the arm choking him.

Sherlock pulled his (John's) revolver out, aiming levely before pulling the trigger. The bullet hit their suspect clean in the shoulder. Sherlock returned to his position behind a rafter, out of sight.

The suspect yelped, loosening his grip in surprise, and John scrambled out of his hold. Not quickly enough, however.

Sherlock could see the outcome in his mind.

Their suspect, while disoriented, was not dazed enough. He would grab John's arm, he would retaliate to the attack by forcing the dagger into John's stomach, his ribcage, or his chest. Neither of those options were particularly beneficial.

"Get down!" he yelled, grabbing the nearby rope and propelling himself off the rafter.

John, the good doctor, followed Sherlock's command without pausing. Sherlock landed directly where John had been moments ago, and their suspect, who was neither agile nor intelligent, didn't have time to change his course of action.

Sherlock felt the blade bite against his side but he dismissed the pain of the wound, instead grabbing the man's arm and twisting it firmly behind his back. Their suspect hissed in pain. Sherlock jammed his knee against the back of their suspect's; the man fell heavily onto his knees, spitting and swearing and gasping in pain.

As Lestrade and his troops forced handcuffs onto the suspect, Sherlock became aware of someone pushing his coat aside, prodding around the source of pain that was the new knife graze.

John was crouched next to him, quickly pulling Sherlock's shirt up so he could have a clear look at the wound.

"John," Sherlock muttered irritably.

John ignored him, his eyes intent and his fingers busy with pressing his own gloves against the wound.

"John," Sherlock said louder. "It's just a scrape."

John threw the gloves down, whirling on Lestrade as he stood. "Sherlock told you to stay out of this!"

Sherlock blinked. Lestrade looked, similarly, stunned.

"He told you to stay out of this, and for-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, quietly.

"- but you _didn't_, and now there's wounds to deal with! I've known him for a shorter time than you and I know that I should just do what he says, no questions asked!"

"Come on, John, you were scared to death," Lestrade muttered. He was clearly uncomfortable with the situation, and Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that brushed his lips.

"Oh, for- _I knew he was there!_" John said hotly, his voice almost a technical shout now. "I knew he was there the whole time; we had this all planned out!"

"You were... acting?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, I bloody well was! You almost got _me_ killed, and look at him!" John gestured to Sherlock. "He's _bleeding_."

Sherlock repositioned his shirt, placing his hands in his pockets. "John," he said, everyone looking at him now, "our criminal's been caught. Let's go home; I feel Chinese is in order."

John stared at him for a moment before exhaling heavily. His shoulders drooped. He looked incredibly exhausted after this escapade. "Fine. You're going to let me look at that wound when we get home, too."

Sherlock only shrugged, striding ahead of them all.

* * *

**After much lol-Summer-doesn't-have-the-creativity-to-work-on-anything-except-new-stories, I've finally gotten back into this. Good, old Sherlock. Willing to put himself in the line of danger for John. Poor John. He just cares too much. And Lestrade's just caught in the middle, as per the usual. Just another day for Sherlock and John!**

**Chapter Fifty-Three will be _Sherlock's Genuine_. Thanks!**


	53. Sherlock's Genuine

"John..."

John didn't look away from the television.

"This is a ridiculous programme," Sherlock said.

John still didn't look away from the television.

Sherlock sighed heavily, hauling himself off of the sofa.

It had been this way ever since they had returned home. Sherlock had made the mistake of saying something stupid like... well, the exact words had been _John's just my blogger, why would I worry if he didn't show up on time?_ Apparently, 'just my blogger' hadn't exactly sat right with John and, while Sherlock admitted that he could have chosen a better word, they had been talking to _Mycroft_, for goodness sake. Why would John allow anything that Sherlock said to Mycroft to bother him? How could he be so _stupid_?

John had been caught in traffic or something (John had explained briefly when he'd turned up late, but Sherlock hadn't been listening), which had made him late to a meeting that they were having with Mycroft and Lestrade about some ridiculous case that Sherlock had already solved. John had ended up being ten minutes late and, when he finally had arrived at the Diogenes Club, Mycroft had commented how Sherlock didn't seem to care at all where John was.

And that's when Sherlock had said those words that had made John so irritated.

And John wasn't talking to him now.

It was tedious, although he was sure that John would say that he was getting a taste of his own medicine.

Sherlock walked into the kitchen without another word.

John didn't ask him what he was doing.

Sherlock returned to the sitting room approximately six minutes later.

He balanced the teacup and saucer carefully, doing his best to not spill any of the tea that he had just made. He stopped next to John's chair.

"... John."

John glanced at him briefly, most likely from the close proximity of his voice, before doing a double take when he noticed the fine china and the tea.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, trying to force the words to sound meaningful and genuine. Truth be told, he couldn't understand why John was upset, but it didn't mean he didn't want his flatmate to not talk to him because of it. "Really."

John looked at the teacup for a moment before reaching up and carefully taking it from Sherlock.

"Thanks," John muttered.

Sherlock smiled to himself. Progress!

"If it's any consolation, I would have called you if you hadn't shown up after awhile."

"What is 'awhile' to you?" John grumbled, taking a drink of his tea. "Three days?"

"An hour would suffice, John. Perhaps even a half hour."

John took another drink of his tea, setting the teacup back onto the saucer afterwards. "Are you positive about that?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "Of course I am."

John sighed quietly.

"You're important to me, John," Sherlock said. "I do need a blogger and someone to pay half the rent, after all."

"Oh, yeah, that's all I'm good for, huh..."

"And an outsider's view on things helps me to think. And you're... you're..." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I appreciate your friendship, alright?"

John raised his eyebrows, looking back up at him. "... Are you feverish?"

Sherlock snorted, walking away. "No."

"Hmm..." John took another drink of his tea.

Sherlock was overly conscious of John watching him, closely, the rest of the night.

* * *

**Wow, so, yes, I'm still working on this story. x'D**

_**Sherlock's Guilty**_** will be the next chapter, I believe! Thank you for your support!**


	54. Sherlock's Guilty

Sherlock sighed.

This happened _a lot_, didn't it? Sherlock wasn't conscious of it until after the fact, not until John gave him that _look_. That look wasn't an encouraging look, and _then_ (and something not even then) Sherlock could figure out it was something he said.

"It's _really_ not a big deal! He says stuff like that all the time!"

"Oh, and you understand all of that, do you? Well, I'm _so_ glad that you understand... _Sherlock-speak_!"

"Listen-"

"I'm not going to stand around and be _insulted_-"

"I'm insulted all the time and I don't go storming out!"

"Oh, well, that certainly says something, doesn't it?"

Sherlock plucked another note on his bow as the exterior door from the lobby downstairs slammed shut. There was silence for a moment before there were footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock plucked another note, looking reflexively towards the door. John appeared after a few seconds, looking livid and just the slightest bit... sad.

More silence. It was the calm before the storm, Sherlock imagined.

"Do you have to ruin everything?!" John exclaimed.

There was the storm.

"It's not my fault."

"It _is_ your fault!"

Sherlock sighed. "How is it my fault that she is still married?"

"She said that she's working on it-"

"She's not."

John stopped. And then he sighed. "You know, everything was so simple before you showed up. I could be properly oblivious."

"You're still properly oblivious," Sherlock retorted.

"Yes, but then there's you!"

Sherlock frowned, his fingers travelling over the violin strings absently. "I'm sorry that I disappoint you."

John snorted. "Right."

"Really."

John looked at Sherlock for a moment before sighing, again. "You don't disappoint me. You're just... you really need to think about what you say before you say it."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Not really, but I thought perhaps it was better to say it, anyway."

John rolled his eyes, sinking into his chair. "Make me a cup of tea."

"I don't-"

"Sherlock. Tea."

Sherlock sighed heavily, carefully placing his violin on the sofa. "Fine. Oolong or Irish Blend?"

"Irish."

Sherlock shuffled into the kitchen. He supposed he could make a cup of tea for John... just this once.

* * *

_**Sherlock's Guilty**_**, but not necessarily sorry. =p**

_**Sherlock's Wondering**_** is up next! Thanks!**


	55. Sherlock's Wondering

"What's so attractive about women?"

John nearly choked on his coffee.

Criterion Coffee was bustling on the dreary morning that John had persuaded Sherlock to stop so he could get a cup of coffee and a bagel. There were people milling about, walking, talking, on their laptops or reading the newspaper.

And, apparently, there was a curious consulting detective wondering about things that John never wanted to hear Sherlock's thoughts about.

_"What?"_ John asked, rubbing the back of his hand against his mouth.

Sherlock was staring off into the distance and John followed his gaze to a couple that was sitting in the far booth, holding hands and smiling at each other over their cups of coffee.

"Love is a terrible part of nearly everyone's life that I do not understand. The chemistry is increasingly simple, but _what_ is it that drives the attraction?" Sherlock looked back at John. "What do you find attractive about women?"

John felt his ears growing hot. He took a gulp of his coffee, thinking that, if Sherlock's attention wasn't deviated sooner rather than later, he was going to need something stronger.

"I am not having this conversation with you," he muttered.

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"Because, Sherlock... This isn't something that you talk about in the middle of a busy coffee shop... or anywhere, with you, for that matter." John muttered the last bit under his breath.

"You've dated a fair share of women thus far. What did you like about the doctor? The one with the nose, the one with the spots, and the boring teacher-"

"They do have names, Sherlock," John interrupted.

"It's a physical appearance aspect, I assume," Sherlock continued. "But, I'm serious, John. I don't understand what men think is so wonderful."

"Yeah, it's an appearance aspect. Great job. Can we drop the topic now?"

"The doctor, then. Were you attracted to her eyes, lips, bre-"

"Sherlock, please!" If he hadn't been blushing before, John certainly was now.

"I'm genuinely curious, John," Sherlock said. "I'm waiting for an explanation."

John looked at his coffee cup. "... None, really. Personality. I liked her personality. We had common interests."

"So it's not just an appearance aspect..." Sherlock murmured.

"No, it's not..."

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "What's attractive about men?"

John, who had decided it was safe to take a drink of his coffee again, regretted it.

"What?" he demanded, coughing slightly.

"Is it the same idea?"

"How should I know?" John retorted, feeling his face grow even more warm. "_You_ know I'm not gay, even if no one else does!"

"Well, surely you've noticed."

"Noticed? I'm not checking guys out; no, I haven't noticed!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, taking a contemplative sip of his own coffee. John stared at his cup of coffee again, willing the blush to leave his cheeks.

He was pleased when Sherlock voiced no further questions. John forgot about the conversation- or tried to delete it, at least- and enjoyed his breakfast of a cinnamon bagel and Criterion coffee.

"What's so attractive about me?"

John's blush returned with a vengeance. "Damn it, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked at him. "What?"

"Why do you... _constantly_ find topics that make me uncomfortable?"

"Why are you uncomfortable?" Sherlock retorted. "_I'm_ the one at whom the blonde barista at the counter keeps staring at."

John glanced up, catching the eye of the blonde woman as she looked away from Sherlock.

"She's staring at me because she finds me attractive, I'm assuming, given the acceleration of her pulse and the dilated pupils."

John didn't ask how Sherlock knew about the pulse or the pupils since they were on the other side of the coffee shop.

"My personality clearly isn't what has attracted her attention to me; I haven't said a word to her, so it's clearly the appearance aspect. What makes me attractive?"

"Clearly not your innate ability to ask awkward questions," John muttered.

"John."

"Why don't you ask her?"

Sherlock looked back at the barista. "Fine." He stood.

"Sh-Sherlock!" John hissed, grabbing the detective's sleeve. "No!"

"Why not?"

"Sit down!"

"I want to know," Sherlock said, taking a seat again. "Tell me."

Regardless on whether or not it was the truth, John realized the importance of answering Sherlock's question. Either he imagined up some response or he was going to be mortifyingly embarrassed.

"Um, well... Your eyes are unique," John muttered. "You've got nice hair... I guess," John said. "You're mysterious, you're tall... Well, you're tall, dark, and handsome, I guess, is probably what they're thinking. Not," John added quickly, "that I would really know. You're just another bloke to me."

"Hmm..." Sherlock looked to the barista again. "It's all such a foreign concept to me."

"The fact that you always wear a suit probably doesn't hurt, either..."

"Wearing a suit attracts attention?"

"Women like men who dress nice," John commented.

"So, my dress, my eyes, my hair..." Sherlock mumbled to himself. A half second later, he sighed heavily, shoulders slumping. He dragged his fingers back through his hair, ruffling it up.

John didn't miss the quick deviation of Sherlock's eyes back to the barista.

"Sherlock..." he chastised.

Sherlock smirked, sitting up straight again. "Yes. She likes my hair." He looked back at John. "What is it about my hair that she enjoys?"

"I don't know!" John retorted.

"Does she enjoy it because it's curly? Or because it's messy after I ran my fingers through it? Or because my shampoo makes it shine-"

"Okay, _stop_ talking about your self-conceited beauty. Don't we have a case to solve or something?"

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "The curious case of other people's attraction to Sherlock Holmes..."

"That's a mystery that we will never solve..." John muttered, finishing the last of his coffee.

* * *

_**"****The**** way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed..."**_** Because I always think of that line when Sherlock ruffles his hair.**

**Thank you to _Storylover18_ for the idea for _wondering_. I prompted myself the word and then failed to think of a topic. She suggested an idea similar to this, and thus, a new chapter. My lack of inspiration was the reason for the delay, but a new chapter will be written soon (hopefully), because I'm back in familiar territory with...**

_**Sherlock's Wounded**_**!**

**I do not own _Sherlock_, One Direction or any of their music, or anything else that I reference, really. Thank you.**


	56. Sherlock's Wounded

"John..."

"Just a second!" John called, tearing through the drawers. "Keep applying pressure!"

He heard Sherlock groan. The noise tore straight into John's heart. He slammed the drawer and ran for the stairs, ascending them two at a time. He spun into his room, wrenched the closet open, and grabbed the first-aid kit that he always kept on the top shelf. He ran back downstairs.

"Lost about a pint..." Sherlock muttered, his weak voice drifting down the hall.

John hurried into the bathroom, slamming the first-aid kit down. He grabbed another towel from the cabinet and rushed back into Sherlock's bedroom.

The consulting detective was sitting on the floor, slumped back against his bed. He was exceedingly pale and there was blood smeared across his face. His breathing was laboured, his eyes closed. He looked in pain. Sherlock never looked like he was in pain.

"Hey!" John announced, sinking down next to him. "Stay awake!" He picked up the clean towel and pressed it against the gash on Sherlock's thigh. It seemed to have stopped bleeding, John noted thankfully.

Sherlock groaned again, his eyes snapping open.

"Sorry," John apologized immediately. He watched Sherlock swallow and had the sinking suspicion that the detective was about to be sick.

Sherlock gave him a look. "No, I'm not... going to vomit," he muttered, dropping head back against the bed again. "Now hurry up and get everything you need!"

John shifted uneasily. "Sherlock..."

"John, do it!"

John flinched. "Fine..." he mumbled, before walking back into the bathroom. He picked up the pair of kitchen shears that he had found, crouching next to Sherlock again.

"I need to cut the fabric-"

"I know," Sherlock gasped, squirming slightly. "My trouser's are... ruined, anyway. Hate knives... They're so destructive..."

John didn't respond, just focussed on peeling the fabric of Sherlock's trousers away from the wound and cutting it away.

"This needs to be cleaned and disinfected-" John started, but Sherlock cut him off.

"I'll do it."

"Sherlock, you don't know-"

"I do," Sherlock said. "I've had plenty of wounds."

"Not like this!"

"Well, almost," Sherlock said breathlessly. "Go find your suture needle. Disinfect it... Black thread..." He winced. _"Now."_

Against John's better wishes, he turned to do what he was told.

Against John's better wishes, he was going to give Sherlock stitches. In their flat. Without anesthesia.

Sometimes, he really hated the fact that Sherlock knew he was doctor. It made Sherlock even less likely to go to hospital.

After he had disinfected everything that he was going to need, he returned to the bedroom to check on Sherlock. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.

John sighed, peering into the bathroom.

Sherlock was slumped against the bathroom counter, breathing heavier than he had been. He was, if possible, even more pale, but he appeared to have cleaned the wound.

"Sherlock...?" John asked nervously.

He dreaded this. He really dreaded this. But he couldn't talk Sherlock into a hospital and, even if he _did_ manage to get him into one, John knew that he would leave against medical advice. He had no options... and he was terrified.

Now is not the time for nerves, Captain Watson. Deep breath. Go to work.

"It's fine..." Sherlock mumbled, not opening his eyes.

John crouched next to Sherlock, inspecting the wound on Sherlock's thigh. It looked, well, nasty, but it also looked like Sherlock had properly cleaned the wound.

"Did you rinse this with saline?" he inquired.

Sherlock nodded.

"Okay..." John stood again. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital?"

"Just do it," Sherlock said.

John took a deep breath. "Okay. I need you to go back to the bedroom and lay down." The fact that Sherlock had gotten the knife wound to his thigh already made this awkward- although John wasn't actually thinking about it- but he was trying to figure what would be best for Sherlock. He decided that laying down would be best.

Painstakingly, John help Sherlock limp back to the bedroom.

"Okay," John said, watching Sherlock prop his head up with pillows. "I'm going to sterilize the skin and then start the sutures..." he trailed off, pausing.

Sherlock opened one eye at the silence that ensued.

"This is going to hurt, Sherlock," John muttered.

"I know. Get on with it."

John took another deep breath. He picked up a pair of surgical gloves, sterilized the area around the wound, and took the needle and tweezers in hand. "This has all been sterilized. It's all safe and fine... even if I don't condone this, at all."

"I'm not a patient... John," Sherlock complained. "I don't need to know... the risks."

"I really think you do," John muttered, sinking into the chair that he'd placed by Sherlock's bed. He looked up at Sherlock. "Are you ready?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, nodding slightly afterwards.

* * *

**This idea also is thanks to _Storylover18_, who has written a story where John gives Sherlock stitches at their flat.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. **

**Chapter Fifty-Seven, _Sherlock's Worried_, featuring very-ill!John, will be the next chapter! Thanks!**


	57. Sherlock's Worried

John opened his eyes slowly, desperately trying to see past the darkness. He felt sick and weak and tired... He wanted to fall back asleep, but the blackness covering his vision made him feel sick to his stomach. He just wanted to make sure that everything was alright- that Sherlock was alright- and then he would go back to sleep.

He didn't remember falling asleep. He could tell that he was in bed, although it didn't seem like it was _his_ bed. He was too tired to complain...

Although, he was becoming aware of a steady noise beeping away in the background. He wanted to tell Sherlock to knock it off- whatever experiment he was doing could wait- and John finally managed to open his eyes.

"John..."

He knew there was something instantly wrong, from the deep voice that had just spoken his name. The voice could only belong to Sherlock, but it was wrong, all wrong.

Sherlock sounded... worried.

John started to ask a question, but the words died in his throat. His throat was aching, and it was dry, and his head was starting to pound. He also became aware of something against his nose, and he clumsily raised his hand to brush it away... only to find that he had oxygen prongs situated into his nostrils.

"You're in hospital," Sherlock said, a bit loudly. "That cold you've been fighting? It's pneumonia. You started coughing last night and couldn't breathe. Do you remember?"

John most assuredly did _not_ remember. He remembered the cold... He'd been sick for a week and a half now, but he had been taking paracetamol and telling himself to deal with it. But, pneumonia? How could he have pneumonia? How could _he_ have pneumonia, without knowing it?

"John?"

John shook his head slightly. "No..."

"Do you want water?"

John nodded minutely. He watched, feeling a bit numb, as Sherlock poured him a styrofoam cup of water and helped him take a drink.

He knew that Sherlock was worried. He was being kind.

"What happened...?" John asked, trying to sit up. He was assailed with aches and pains; his entire body felt like it was covered with bruises. "I feel like I've been run over with a lorry..."

"I gave you CPR."

It took John a few, belated seconds to register those three words and those three letters. He felt his face turn hot and he looked critically- and embarrassingly- towards Sherlock.

"You started coughing. It triggered your gag reflex, which triggered vomiting, and, by the time that you..." Sherlock trailed off. His voice was uncomfortable. "Well, you stopped breathing."

John stared at Sherlock for a few moments as those words sank in. Sherlock was pale although his eyes were keen, his shoulders were slumped and his hair was ruffled. His clothes- which were pyjamas, John noted with some interest- were rumpled. He looked rather withdrawn as he sat next to the hospital bed.

"I administered CPR until the EMTs arrived. So, if you feel like someone's been dancing on your chest, I take blame for trying to keep you breathing."

Sherlock sounded like he was trying very much to be angry. John could hear the forced upset in Sherlock's tone, and he could also hear the... well, John didn't know what to call it. It sounded hollow, emotionless. Numb.

John met Sherlock's gaze for a half second before the detective looked away. John watched as Sherlock swallowed, turning to look at the wall.

John felt uncomfortable, and not because Sherlock had given him CPR.

"I'm sorry..." he said softly, after the silence had become too heavy to bear.

Sherlock looked back at him immediately. "I don't believe that it was in your wishes to stop breathing, therefore you have nothing to apologize for."

"I know," John said quietly, "but I'm still sorry that you had to go through that."

Sherlock didn't respond.

John was starting to feel worried for his best friend's sake. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked back at him questioningly.

"I'm fine, you know?"

Sherlock nodded. "I am aware."

"Thanks to you..."

"Please do not get overly sentimental, John. It's disgusting," Sherlock said, looking away.

"You saved my life... again."

Sherlock looked back at him again. His gaze was critical- the stare that usually made John feel like squirming- but he held Sherlock's eye contact this time.

Yes, you did save my life before this.

Yes, I do need you.

Sherlock took a breath before looking back at the wall. "It's fine. Don't do it again."

"I really don't plan on it..." John muttered, settling back against the pillows.

John wondered what Sherlock's reaction had been while all of this had been happening last night. He was still clearly upset now, panicked and worried and traumatised all in one, but John didn't remember what had happened and he couldn't fathom how Sherlock would have reacted.

Poorly, John could tell. Sherlock had reacted poorly.

But, he had kept some of his wits about him, as he had properly- painfully, John had to admit- administered CPR and kept him breathing until he could get to the hospital. Awkward, yes, but John understood medical situations and, while people would talk, John had his life and Sherlock had his best friend, and...

The CPR didn't bother him as much as the fact that Sherlock had been _scared_. That he was still scared, and still worrying about his flatmate's health, which was why he would barely look him in the eye.

John didn't care about the CPR.

The CPR signified that Sherlock cared about John and that was all John really needed to know.

* * *

**Idea inspired by a conversation between myself and _storylover18_ (lol, Summer, y u no think of ur own ideas? My muse is rude and Story is intelligent. That's why.). I do not own _Sherlock_, nor the _Sherlock Holmes_ movies that I so subtly referenced.**

**Next chapter, trivial details about Sherlock's childhood will surface in... _Sherlock's Open_. Thank you!**


	58. Sherlock's Open

It was a bit frightening.

One minute, Sherlock was sitting in his chair, watching telly.

The next, he was sprinting across the room, blood dripping down his face.

"Sherlock?" John asked in alarm, quickly starting after him. "Sherlock, what the hell..." He followed him to the bathroom, where he found Sherlock leaning over the sink, blood dripping against the porcelain white.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said thickly, not looking up. "Nosebleed."

John stared. "Nose- _Why_ is your nose bleeding?" he asked, quickly picking up the toilet paper.

"Dunno."

"You don't _know_?" John echoed, pressing a clump of toilet paper against Sherlock's nose gingerly.

Sherlock took the toilet paper and held it against his nose himself. "No. I used to hab nosebleeds when I was little."

"For no reason?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Not that I could find."

John watched worriedly as Sherlock swapped out the tissue, blood dripping down his chin in the brief respite.

"I'm bine, John, really."

"This hasn't happened since I've lived with you."

"Sure, we'll go wif that."

"You're _joking_," John said. "And you never knew why this happened?"

Sherlock shook his head, reaching to turn on the tap. The water washed the blood down the drain and John watched it, feeling nauseous. Only Sherlock's blood could make John feel nauseous.

"No. I remember one time when..." Sherlock sniffed, pressing more tissue to his nose. "... a bew kids were tormenting me at school and... my nose 'tarted bleeding. Dey breaked out..." He swiped his hand below his nose, wiping away blood. "It was conbenient because... dey got in trouble for bunching me and they really hadn't."

John stared at him. He realized that the fact that Sherlock was... what was his word, tormented... at school shouldn't surprise him. Sherlock had always been different. Analytical, uncaring, remote, calculating, emotionless, cold... Not to mention blunt, rude, sarcastic, childish, and pompous... But, still, the mention of bullying straight from Sherlock's lips made John's heart ache and his blood boil.

How many times had Sherlock had to endure _freak_ while he had been at school?

Sherlock glanced at John, frowning. "What?" he asked, rummaging in the drawer for a washcloth. He ran it under the water and wiped the blood off his face, looking at the mirror now.

"Nothing."

"I was fine, John," Sherlock said, wiping away the rest of the blood. His nose appeared to have already stopped bleeding.

"Well, what am I supposed to think when you suddenly have blood pouring down your face..." John muttered sullenly.

"I'm not talking about the nosebleed; I'm talking about my school life," Sherlock said, unrolling more toilet paper and blowing his nose.

John looked back at Sherlock. He ignored Sherlock's actions (he should have been letting it clot for a few minutes, at the very least) and instead focussed on the statement.

"Yeah, well, you know..."

"I know what?" Sherlock asked, tossing the bloody tissue paper into the toilet. "That you worry about what my life was like before I met you? Then, yes, I know that." He flushed the toilet. "And I'm telling you it's unnecessary. I am fine, I always have been fine."

"Have you? Honestly?"

The words were automatic and John knew that Sherlock would say _yes_, even if the detective had had an unhappy childhood. (Which, as it were, John knew very little about Sherlock's childhood.)

"Obviously."

"Boys? I picked up shopping for- oh, sorry. Am I interrupting?"

John jumped as Mrs. Hudson peered into the open bathroom door. Sherlock didn't look fazed, didn't look up, in fact, as he scrubbed blood from the sink.

"No, no, no, Mrs. Hudson, we were just talking," John started, but their landlady cut them off.

"No, now don't you worry. I'll just leave the shopping in the kitchen. You can sort through it when you're not busy."

"Really, Mrs. Hudson, we're not busy," John said, but not before their landlady had turned and John heard her descending the stairs. He sighed. "Well, she's got the wrong idea."

"Does she?" Sherlock replied, sounding disinterested.

"I'd imagine."

Sherlock wrung out the washcloth. "Hm."

"Anyway..."

Sherlock straightened up, smiling sardonically. "Maybe it's a little bit better now."

John frowned. "What's a little bit better?"

"My life."

Sherlock brushed past John, still smiling. John stared after him.

"What? Because our landlady thinks we're gay?!"

"Because you're you!" Sherlock called back.

"What does that even _mean_?" John asked, scrambling after Sherlock.

* * *

**I could be wrong, but I _think_ that means he enjoys your company, John. :)**

**I do not own _Sherlock_.**

_**Sherlock's Ordinary**_** is up next... and I promise that it has nothing to do with dear Jim. Thanks!**


	59. Sherlock's Ordinary

"What are you doing?" John asked, struggling with the shopping as he stepped into the flat.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, not looking away from the television.

"Sherlock..."

"Shh."

"Sherlock," John started again.

"Shut up."

John walked into the kitchen, dropping the shopping bags on the table. He turned around and looked back at Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor, legs crossed Indian style, in his pyjamas, hair mussed.

"Where did you get an _Playstation 3_?" John asked.

In Sherlock's hands was the controller to the game system. On the screen, there was some morbid-looking gamescape and apparently, Sherlock's in-game persona.

"Had it."

"What?"

"I've had it," Sherlock repeated, sounding annoyed. "Been on the top shelf of my closet. Do you never observe?"

"... Well, I don't really sort through your closet. And I never really figured you were a video games kind of person."

"Rarely am. Have to be bored."

"You're bored now, then."

"Of course not I'm not bored _now_. I'll be bored when I finish playing this video game, yes."

John heard the click of the control stick and several buttons being pressed on the controller, along with noises on the screen, and he realized that whatever game Sherlock was playing, it involved a bit of violence.

John crossed the room, sinking onto the chair that Sherlock had pushed out of the way.

"What are you playing?"

"I don't know."

John frowned, looking at the back of Sherlock's curly hair. "You don't _know_?"

"Just picked up a game. Dunno what. It's fine."

John raised his eyebrows, noting the Sherlock's attention never once deviated from the television.

"You look like a child," he remarked, smiling at the statement.

Sherlock really _did_. With his hair mussed and his pyjamas draping low over his shoulders and his eyes intent on the television.

"And you smell like a gym," Sherlock retorted. "Shower before you go out and, if you did, there was obviously someone around you who had a terrible body odour problem, so you need to shower now."

John frowned, sniffing at his shoulder. "I do not smell like a gym."

"Yes, you do."

John sighed, watching Sherlock play the video game.

In a few hours, it was Mrs. Hudson that broke the flatmates out of their reverie.

"Come on, Sherlock... Get him!"

Sherlock's lips twitched towards a smile. "There is no need to yell, John."

"Boys... why is there ice cream melted all over the table?" Mrs. Hudson said from the kitchen, her voice confused.

"Shit!" John exclaimed, scrambling to his feet. (Somehow, he had ended up sitting on the floor next to Sherlock.) "The groceries!"

Sherlock paused his video game, standing less-than-fluidly. John noted that Sherlock's entire body seemed to crack or pop with the movement.

"How long have you been sitting there, Sherlock?" he asked, hurrying to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

"Six and a half hours," Sherlock said, walking past the kitchen.

John heard the bathroom door close as he muttered "six and a half hours..." under his breath. Of course Sherlock would sit for six and a half hours straight to play video games, when you were supposed to take at _least_ a fifteen minute break every hour.

"That's not healthy," John said, when Sherlock rejoined him in the kitchen, ruffling his hair again.

"Spare me the health talk."

"How many times must I tell you to not mistreat your body?"

"My transport is quite capable in handling it, I assure you. Starving, though. What's for dinner?"

"Thought I might make quiche."

"Ugh."

"Okay, picky, what do you want?" John asked, glancing up.

"I think a nice quiche sounds lovely, John," Mrs. Hudson commented, looking up from wringing out the dish cloth.

"No, no, no, don't be stupid. Cordon bleu sounds delicious."

"But I don't have the ingredients for-"

"Shopping," Sherlock interrupted.

"What?"

"Go shopping."

"I just got back from shopping!"

Sherlock stifled a yawn. "No, you didn't. You got back from shopping three hours ago."

"John, dear, don't worry, I think I have everything to make cordon bleu... Let me check!" Mrs. Hudson said, turning and descending the stairs.

"Sherlock, she is _not_ our cook."

Sherlock looked at him. "I just want cordon bleu," he said, shuffling to the sitting room. He flopped down on the sofa, sighing heavily. "It's not my fault that you didn't buy ingredients for it."

"So, I take it that you like cordon bleu, then?" John asked.

He had long been on a quest to find what foods Sherlock _really_ liked- so he could get the detective to eat during a case- but he didn't seem to have much progress.

"I could take it or leave it," Sherlock replied absently.

John sighed and shook his head, laughing quietly under his breath.

* * *

**Because what's more ordinary (and cute) than Sherlock playing video games and requesting food that may or may be his favourite? :p**

**Chapter Sixty? _Sherlock's Overworked_.**

**As usual, I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	60. Sherlock's Overworked

"Sherlock, just listen to me!"

"Leave me alone."

"Sherlock!"

"Stop yelling at me!"

"I'm yelling because you're not listening!"

Sherlock groaned and grabbed the pillow off the couch, pressing it against his face.

Sherlock had been working on cases, plural, cas_es_, for the past two weeks. It had been one case right after the other and John knew that Sherlock hadn't been sleeping much and eating even less.

It was getting to him.

Sherlock was starting to have headaches (not that he admitted to them) but John noticed the tightening of the lines around his eyes, the scrunching of his forehead, his index fingers rubbing his temples. It was yesterday when Sherlock stumbled when he tried to run up the staircase, nearly ending up flat on his face. Today, John had walked downstairs to find Sherlock absorbed in some case notes, but his hands had been shaking. The case notes had been trembling.

John had wrenched them out of Sherlock's grasp and demanded that he go to bed... and that had led to Sherlock being flopped out across the sofa and the little row they were now having.

"You _need_ to sleep!"

"I _need_ to think," Sherlock replied tartly.

"Sherlock, _look_ at yourself! You're pale, you're shaking, you've been having headaches for _days_, there's shadows under your eyes... I don't even know if I can give you food without your body having an adverse reaction to it now!"

"I am _fine_!" Sherlock snapped, pushing away from the couch and getting unsteadily to his feet. He swayed and John hated himself for knowing what was going to happen and yet not being able to do anything, either.

Sherlock collapsed.

John immediately was at his side, feeling for his pulse and checking his breathing. Both were normal, if his pulse wasn't a bit accelerated. John carefully rolled Sherlock to the recovery position, just in case, before going to find a cool cloth to put on Sherlock's head.

"I told you. I _told_ you," he mumbled. "You cannot keep doing this to yourself..."

"I don't normally do it to myself..." was the slurred response, and John flinched.

Sherlock had just been unconscious not thirty seconds ago. John hoped that he didn't have to restrain him.

"Are you kidding? You push yourself all the time!" John complained, keeping his hand against the cloth on Sherlock's forehead.

"Not to the brink of passing out..." Sherlock mumbled before gripping John's wrist, moving it aside. He looked even more pale and a little bit nauseous as he sat up, wincing slightly.

"Please tell me that you'll rest now," John said. "You cannot expect your body to hold out much longer after you've passed out once. Go to bed, please."

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his face with the cloth. "As much as I hate to say it, I don't think that I can refuse now..." he muttered.

"Why does it take you passing out to make you go to bed..." John muttered, standing with Sherlock to make sure the lanky detective didn't collapse again. "Are you good on your own? You can walk?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock muttered, handing John the cloth. "If Lestrade calls..."

"Then I'll tell him that you're human and you have to sleep."

Sherlock looked affronted. "Don't tell him _that_."

"Fine. Shall I tell him that you're wrapped up in an experiment and can't come to the phone right now?" John asked dryly.

Sherlock nodded. "Perfect..." he mumbled as he stumbled slightly into the wall. John immediately moved to help him, but Sherlock waved him away. "Fine, 'm fine..."

John just sighed, watching Sherlock trudge tiredly towards his bedroom.

* * *

**Sherlock really needs a holiday. But, you know what happens when Sherlock goes on holiday... well, in the canon, at least. :p**

_**Sherlock's Yawning**_**... I have to be creative with my chapter titles, given the letters I have to work with... is up next! **

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	61. Sherlock's Yawning

Sherlock fought the urge to yawn.

"As you can see, the bruising around her nose and mouth suggest suffocation. Her hair is a mess, her clothes are rumpled, and there are scratches on her arms. She struggled."

Sherlock felt the yawn come back and he turned away, covering his mouth.

He was exhausted. He _had_ been sleeping earlier, actually; he and John had had a case on for the past week that had kept him rather busy, so he had fallen into bed willingly at seven-thirty this morning after it had been finally solved.

Lestrade had woken him up around one p.m. with a call about a case. Sherlock had crawled out of bed and hastened to the crime scene.

Now, as he found the case to be boring, he was starting to feel listless and exhausted again.

"The question would be, with who? It clearly wasn't her flatmate... The flatmate was far too weak to..."

Sherlock trailed off, yawning again. Oh, this was obnoxious.

"Tired?" Lestrade asked, the hint of a smile playing along his lips.

Sherlock scowled and continued talking.

"- actually suffocate her. This woman was a black belt; it took someone with a lot of strength to keep her down."

He was _so_ tired. Why did Lestrade insist on calling him to this stupid crime scene to deduce this stupid murder when he was so stupidly _tired_? He wanted to go back home, curl up under the duvet, turn the electric blanket on, and fall asleep in a warm caccoon of detergent-smelling fabric. He just wanted to have a cuppa and _relax_...

He yawned again.

"He was asleep," John added. "Before you called, I mean."

"I can tell," Lestrade said, sounding amused.

Sherlock stood up straighter and finished his deduction.

"Alright," Lestrade said, taking down notes after Sherlock had finished speaking, "I'll check to see what her relationship was with her college professor..." He looked up. "Go home and go back to sleep."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning for the street to hail a cab.

He flopped onto the seat, stretching.

"Tired, then?" John asked, taking the seat next to him.

"As is ever obvious, John," he replied, turning his collar up and burrowing into the warmth of his coat.

"Don't fall asleep in the cab again."

"I'm not going to fall asleep in the cab," Sherlock retorted.

"You've done it before."

"I was exhausted."

"You seem exhausted now."

"Well, as you can see, I am no-" he trailed off with another yawn. "I am not," he finished, a bit defiantly. "Obviously."

"Obviously," John echoed, smiling pleasantly.

Sherlock placed his head against the window, watching London as it flew by outside the window. He closed his eyes, resisting a quiet sigh.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock yawned, opening an eye. "What?"

"You should-" John paused, trying to stifle a yawn behind his hand- "stop yawning, for one thing!"

Sherlock only smirked slightly, settling his head back against the window. "Let me know when we get to Baker Street."

"I thought you weren't going to sleep in the cab?"

"I'm not sleeping..." Sherlock muttered. "I'm just going to my mind palace."

"Uh huh..." There was humour in John's voice, but Sherlock didn't open his eyes again.

It was nearly sixty seconds later that Sherlock was just barely snoring, the quiet inhale-exhale of his breathing breaking the silence of the cab.

(John guessed that Sherlock must be exploring the [tiny] room emblazoned with the word _sleep_ in his mind palace.)

* * *

**Tiny _Sleep_ room, massive _Work_ room- nope, scratch that. The first two floors of Sherlock's mind palace is probably _Work_. And there's a room for _Past Cases_, another room for _Historical Murders_, a library full of _Musical Compositions_ and _Literature_, a lab filled with _Chemistry_, a garden for _Botany_, and a very small attic of _Sentiment_ that stays constantly under a deadbolt _and_ a lock and key. Just to... you know, name a few things. :P**

**Next up... _Sherlock's Youthful_... In other words, childish. Yep.**

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


	62. Sherlock's Youthful

John checked up on Sherlock at twelve- noon, that was- wondering if Sherlock was maybe working on an experiment in his room, or worse, the bathroom. But, no, the sight that greeted John was much more companionable.

Sherlock was sleeping.

He was sprawled out in bed, a look of complete peace across his face.

He'd been sleeping for almost fourteen hours straight now, thus leading John to check up on him. This wasn't uncommon for Sherlock when he had been on a case for a week or so, which he had been.

John thought that fourteen hours was a bit excessive.

Still, he didn't have the heart to wake him up.

Sherlock was sprawled out across the bed, his blankets tangled around his legs and torso. The duvet was kicked away, bunched at the end of the bed. His hair was ruffled, splayed out across the pillow, which he was hugging close to himself. His shirt had shimmied up, revealing the pale expanse of his stomach, and his pyjama pants were settled low on his hips. His bare feet were visible from under the edge of the blanket and, as John watched, Sherlock pulled the pillow closer and his arm fell off the bed, his fingers almost brushing the floor.

John smiled faintly.

Watching Sherlock sleep was... fascinating. For someone who was so high-strung throughout the entire time he was conscious, tense, running here and there... he looked incredibly _peaceful_ when he was sleeping. Peaceful and vulnerable and... childish.

His face lost the cold, careful, calculated mask. The little crease that formed between his eyebrows smoothed out, the analytical gaze was absent, his shoulders were slumped, and his limbs were sprawled out across the bed.

This was the Sherlock that the consulting detective hid away everyday. The man that was awkward in his own skin, but too prideful to let another person know. The man that so was scared of letting his inhibitions down, scared of letting some see him so naked without actually being physically so. The sentimental being that existed, mostly, within his own mind.

But this, _this_ sleeping Sherlock... This was the Sherlock that made John smile softly because, even if he refused to be anything but an emotionless machine in his consciousness, he became a totally different person when he slept.

It made John happy that Sherlock could relax once in awhile... and only once in awhile, too, because Sherlock only slept _once in awhile_. He probably only slept so often _because_ his walls went down. Or maybe because he couldn't _do_ anything while he was sleeping.

Either way...

John turned and pulled the door shut quietly, going to the kettle to brew some tea for the pompous- but well-rested- consulting detective woke up.

* * *

**So, after not updating this story for over a month because the muse ran away, I finally figured a situation for youthful. Looking childish and cute and adorable and you all probably already know that I like sleepy!lock, so yes. Sorry for the delay between updates and I hope to update with better frequency.**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Yearning_.**

**As usual, I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	63. Sherlock's Yearning

"John, please."

"No."

"John-"

"I said no, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned, throwing himself onto the sofa with his customary robe-flip and a quiet huff under his breath.

He didn't have a case.

"At least give me my cigarettes."

"Not a chance."

Sherlock huffed, pushing himself into a sitting position again. He ruffled his fingers through his hair, fluffing it out. He felt cooped up, buried under the boredom. So, he fluffed his hair, let his shirt slide off his shoulder, and irritably stepped over the coffee table to pace to the window.

"Sherlock, you've got to stop pacing," John remarked, ruffling the newspaper.

Sherlock whirled on him. "John, please. I'll be careful. This is important."

"No, it's not."

"I _need_-"

"No, you don't."

"Okay, John, I _want_ to. There. Are you happy? That I want something? That I've stooped so low as to actually _ask_ for something? Please."

John sighed, looking at Sherlock over the newspaper. "I've heard this before. And then you blew up the kettle."

Sherlock frowned. "_Please_," he said, trying to make it genuine. "Please, John. I'll make you tea."

John cleared his throat and looked back to the newspaper.

Sherlock strode across the room and set about quickly turning the kettle on. He looked back to John. "John?"

John didn't look up.

"John? Dinner. I can make dinner."

"_You're_ going to make dinner?" John asked, looking up.

Sherlock dithered on the spot. "... Take-away?"

"Hm..." Back to the newspaper.

"Fine, I'll cook!" Sherlock announced. "Lasagna or Indian food, but you have to go shopping!"

John smiled, lowering his newspaper. "Alright," he allowed. "But be _careful_."

Sherlock practically tripped in his haste to gather the chemicals needed to make the (controlled) explosion in the sink.

He didn't understand why John was so hesitant to let him make this explosion. He was careful. He was perfectly careful. It was fine. It would be fine. John had to trust him. It would be perfect.

Two hours later, he was distracted by John dropping grocery bags onto the counter. Sherlock scowled, elbowing the bags out of the way.

"Can't you put that rubbish somewhere else?" Sherlock griped. "One thing goes wrong and we have a live bomb here."

"Dinner, Sherlock."

"I'm not hungry," he said automatically.

"No, you're making dinner. Remember? Whatever your specialty is in Indian, you better get a move on. I'm starving. The queue at Tesco was ridiculously long."

Sherlock glanced up, frowning. "What? When did I- oh."

John smiled pleasantly, turning for the sitting room. "Try not to burn the flat down. And you couldn't go wrong with a cuppa with dinner."

Sherlock sighed and looked at the groceries.

* * *

**In which the chapters get shorter, but Sherlock's a bit domestic.**

**I noticed that I accidentally switched POVs. I started Yawning in Sherlock's POV, went to John's in Youthful, and now I'm in Sherlock's again. Sorry about that.**

**Up next, _Sherlock's Jealous_. I do not own _Sherlock_. Thanks!**


	64. Sherlock's Jealous

How in the world Sherlock ended up going on a date with John and Hannah, John had no idea. But yet. Here Sherlock was, standing in front of their table, staring intently down at John with clear, keen eyes.

"No," John said sternly.

"I haven't said anything," Sherlock said.

"No, but you're thinking it." John turned to Hannah. "I'm sorry. Excuse me, I'm sorry."

He got to his feet, gripped Sherlock's forearm, and dragged him away from the table and his girlfriend. (Sherlock had already scared away too may girlfriends thus far. No need to add another one to the list.)

"Why the _hell_ can you not manage to stay home alone for _one_ night?" John hissed. "I am on a _date_, Sherlock, and I _told_ you not to bother me when I'm on a date!"

"I had a thought, John."

"You should be thinking about _not bothering me while I'm on a date_!"

"May I join you?"

The words threw John off guard, to the point where he actually stopped and stared up at the consulting detective.

"_Excuse_ me?" John gasped. "What are you talking about?"

"I want to talk about a case, but since you're on a date, I'll stay until you're finished with the date. You and I can talk on the way back to Baker Street."

John frowned. "Who said I was going back to Baker Street tonight?"

It was Sherlock who frowned then. "I made the assumption, since the woman that you are dating tonight currently has a relationship with the woman from the Chinese at the end of Baker Street."

John's breath left him in an audible sigh. "Sherlock. You ruin everything." With that, he turned and walked back to the table where he had left his (lesbian?) girlfriend. "Sorry. My flatmate."

"Oh. He seems..."

"Pompous?"

"No..."

"Well, he is," John said, tearing into a roll.

"Are you alright?"

John sighed and nodded. "Yes."

"John?" Sherlock's voice was an inquiry as he stopped at the edge of the table. "I'll pay for dinner."

"No-" John started, but Hannah interrupted.

"Why don't you let him join us, John? I'd love to know what you're like at home," she said playfully.

John didn't know what the point was... If she was a lesbian, what the hell difference did _any_ of this have?

"Fine," John said. "But keep your mouth shut," he said vehemently.

It went well, to an extent. They ate dinner- while Sherlock tapped away on his mobile phone- and chatted a bit- while Sherlock stared out the window. John decided that this woman could definitely _not_ be a lesbian- where was the proof? Sherlock had probably seen her with her sister or someone... a friend, not a lover. Sherlock could _not_ be right.

"Wait, so what did you do then?" John asked, leaning forward to hear the rest of her story.

"Well, we went outside, hailed a cab, and booked it back home!" Hannah said, laughing.

"You're lucky that the cops didn't pick you up!" John laughed, rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand absently. "Sounds like an interesting night."

"Certainly memorable," she said, leaning forward.

They were just about to kiss when-

"John!"

John jumped, looking at Sherlock. "What?"

"I just remembered: Lestrade dropped by for a drugs bust."

John frowned. "What? Can't you- I don't know, _wait_ to tell me this?" He looked back at Hannah. "Sorry. Where were we?"

Sure that Sherlock's 'drugs bust' was just an excuse to break the moment- because Lestrade would have told John, that was just how it worked- John was less worried about his flatmate and more about his date.

Although he realised that kissing in front of Sherlock was _ridiculously_ awkward.

He and Hannah went back to talking amongst themselves. John was just laughing quietly over something that she'd said.

"John..."

John glanced up in annoyance. "_What?_"

Sherlock didn't answer and John breathed out heavily, looking back at Hannah, who continued her story.

"Anyway, so, we were on the plane, and we're getting ready to literally _jump_ from it, with a parachute, obviously, when it starts to _rain_-"

"John," Sherlock interrupted again.

"_What_ do you _want_?" John snapped, looking up again.

The look that Sherlock gave him was purely miserable.

John frowned. "What?"

"I feel sick," Sherlock said.

"What?" John reached across the table to place his hand on Sherlock's forehead, but he leaned away. "Sherlock, what do you mean you feel sick?"

"I mean I feel sick," Sherlock retorted before standing.

"Where are you going?"

"Toilet," Sherlock replied tersely, striding for the bathroom.

"Sherlock?" John stood up. "Er-" He looked back at Hannah. "Um, hang on. Give me a second. I'll be- I'll be right back."

When he walked back to the bathroom, Sherlock was sitting on the sink countertop, his fingers steepled loosely and his eyes keen on John as he walked in.

"John. There was a murder today that closely resembles the serial killer that were investigating last month. I believe that these murders are connected, if not necessarily committed by the same murderer-"

John stared at him. "_Hang on_. I thought you said you felt ill!"

"I do. I am ill of hearing your date prattle on about drivel that does not concern me or you. Anyway, this murder-"

John turned and stalked out.

* * *

**Apologies for the delay. I just realised that, on the 6th of this month, I'll have been working on this story for a year. And when you've been working on a story for a whole- sixty-four chapters, including this one- you get a bit... sluggish. So, again, I'm sorry for the delays between these chapters.**

**ANYWAY. Jealous. Jealous is fun.**

**Chapter Sixty-five will be _Sherlock's Joking_. Hopefully. I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you!**


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